


Three's a Crowd... isn't it?

by Laura_trekkie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Double Penetration, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_trekkie/pseuds/Laura_trekkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock watches as John and Lestrade go from friendship to much more, but a run in with Moriarty makes him face his own feelings for his two friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's a Crowd... isn't it?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my most recent fic, written for the 2010 Sherlock Big Bang over on LJ.
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing for Sherlock, so I hope the I’ve done the characters justice.
> 
> A couple of quick notes to make things clear: character’s thoughts are written ‘like this’.  
> ~*~ indicates a scene break where the following pov is the same, whereas ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ indicates a scene break with a change of pov.
> 
> Oh, and I went with Greg Lestrade, as that seems to be what Mark Gatiss went with in one of the commentaries (not seen it myself yet).
> 
>  **Beta:** Huge thanks must go to innie_darling, who performed a lightning fast, last-minute beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own, because I tweaked things a little post-beta.
> 
>  **Art:** By Chibitoaster and Poseys_demise can be seen [at my LJ.](http://laura-trekkie.livejournal.com/10134.html#cutid1)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Sherlock_ or any recognisable characters or places. Written for pleasure, not profit. No money made.

**Three’s a Crowd… isn’t it?**

"Interesting," Sherlock declared, completing his perusal of the latest murder victim.

"What is?" John asked as he stood beside Lestrade, casting a glance around the non-descript back alley they were standing in. He’d made his own observations, of course- he’d picked up a few of Sherlock’s tricks in the few months they’d been sharing a flat.

The dead man wore an expensive suit, but it was very ostentatious, with flashy gold cufflinks and tie pin and a loud tie, so John thought he was more likely to have made his money than been born with it. John found that most people who had always had money tended not to draw attention to it, whereas those who came up from nothing often liked to flaunt their newfound wealth with huge gold jewellery and Ferraris. Their poor chap seemed like the latter. He was also married, judging by the gold ring on his left hand. He was mid-40s, stocky, but fit- barring the three stab wounds to his chest that had caused him to bleed to death.

Instead of answering his question, Sherlock said, "What can you tell me about him, John?"

John recounted everything he’d been thinking. He crouched down, pointing to the man’s chest and adding, "this wound is shallow- hit a rib; this one was deep, but wide of the heart. It may have nicked the artery, and it certainly caused trauma, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out not to have been fatal. This third one was the one to make him bleed out; it went straight into his heart. Poor sod didn’t stand a chance,” he told Sherlock and Lestrade, who was leaning over John’s shoulder slightly, peering down at the body.

John moved his attention to the man’s hands, inspecting his fingernails and knuckles. “No defensive wounds, so the attack was quick and there’s no chance of getting the killer’s DNA from under his nails. And judging by the amount of blood, our victim was killed here and not dumped.” He looked at Sherlock as he concluded his observations and stood up.

“Excellent, John,” Sherlock said, sounding pleased. John couldn’t stop the little thrill that ran through him at Sherlock’s praise. It wasn’t easily won, after all, and more often than not all he got in response was a scathing retort. “What else?” Sherlock asked, and John’s pleasure faded a little as he tried to figure out what else Sherlock had already spotted.

“Okay… Crime of passion?” he said tentatively. Sherlock made an encouraging noise and John, confidence restored somewhat, went on with his theory. “Three stab wounds. A mugger would be more likely to stab just once, enough to stop any attempt to fight back; there’s no real anger in the act. But to keep on stabbing someone suggests anger, that the attacker bears the victim some grudge.”

He looked at Sherlock to see if he’d got it somewhere close, relieved to see the man was beaming at him. “Very good. Except… the man’s wallet is missing. Why take that?”

That threw a bit of a spanner in the works and John wracked his brain for a reason. Lestrade beat him to it, though.

“To make identifying him harder. DNA and fingerprints will only help if he’s got a record and dental records are only helpful if he’s got some sort of filling or had other identifying work done. The knife’s gone, too, so no potential fingerprints to ID the killer.”

“Well done, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, turning his smile on the DI.

Lestrade and John grinned at each other. John guessed the detective felt the same as himself- like a schoolboy getting praised by his teacher. Of course, it didn’t last. Sherlock had it all figured out and wasted no more time in presenting his findings.

“I’ll make real detectives of you yet,” he said, blithely ignoring Lestrade’s half-hearted ‘oi!’ of protest.

"You were both right as far as you went, but you missed some obvious clues."

"Of course we did," Lestrade muttered, and John shot him a quick grin.

"The killer didn’t want himself or his victim easily identified, but he left behind the cufflinks and this business card."

"Marie Springfield, Maid Service?" Lestrade said, taking the card and angling it so John could also read it. "You said the killer was male."

"He is."

"So how do the cufflinks and this card help us?" John asked, sharing a bemused look with Lestrade.

"They tell us who the murderer is and how to ID the victim," Sherlock replied, the ‘of course’ mercifully left unsaid.

"No, it tells _you_ that. Any chance you can tell _us_ so I can arrest the bastard?" Lestrade said exasperatedly.

Sherlock sighed, the one John had labelled 'do try to keep up'- one of Sherlock’s less insulting sighs. "Really, Lestrade, how you managed to make it to detective inspector is beyond me. Look at the cufflinks, John; what do you see?"

John crouched once more, twisting a sleeve for a better look. "Gold, with an embossed Pegasus and an X," he reported.

"It’s not an X, it’s a ten. These cufflinks are presented by Pegasus Investment Bank to staff members who reach their tenth anniversary. These are new- no scratches- so you simply need to ask the bank which of their tenth-year staff is missing."

"How do you know he hasn’t had them for ages and only wears them occasionally?" John asked.

"Because you were right, John- a man like this shows what he’s got and these cufflinks make a statement about how good he is to have made it to ten years in such a cut-throat business."

"Ok, that gives us somewhere to look for this poor sod, but what about this?" Lestrade asked, waving the little card he still held.

"This man is married, why would he have a card for a maid service in his pocket?" Sherlock responded.

"It _is_ possible for men, even married ones, to want a clean house," John said, thinly veiling his thoughts on Sherlock’s unwillingness to do any housework.

"Are you saying you want us to get a maid, John? Are you sure we’re ready for that sort of commitment?" Sherlock said with an amused glint in his eye. Lestrade snorted in badly concealed amusement.

"God no," John said with mock horror, "the poor woman would probably kill herself tidying up one of your experiments within a week!" Lestrade’s amusement got a bit more obvious and John turned a teasing frown on him. "Laughing at a crime scene, Inspector? That’s not very professional."

"Hardly surprising," Sherlock muttered with a tiny smile.

"Shut up, the pair of you." Lestrade said, though he didn’t sound particularly upset.

John liked it when Sherlock let his playful side out. It was nice to see him smile properly, instead of one of his many fakes. Sherlock might not be conventionally handsome, but whenever he smiled like that, John felt his breath catch a little. He was starting to accept that he had feelings for his flatmate. It always caught him by surprise when he took a fancy to a man. He wasn’t lying when he told people he wasn’t gay, and he did mostly aspire to the dream of a wife and a couple of kids, but it would be fine if he ended up with a _husband_ and two kids. The only difference was that he tended to _look_ for women, while men crept up on him. It seemed Sherlock had made just such a stealth attack. John was pleased to have so quickly become someone Sherlock relaxed around. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were the only other people Sherlock seemed willing to tease, instead of merely crush for his amusement.

Donovan was definitely not one of the select few, so when she arrived in the alleyway with, "has Freak told you who did it yet?" the atmosphere cooled pretty quickly.

"Sherlock was just about to do his thing," Lestrade said, emphasising the name slightly, while keeping his eyes on the man in question. John hated the way a lot of the police treated Sherlock, but he hadn’t really been around long enough yet to have gained enough footing to have any sway with people like Donovan.

Sherlock brushed it aside as usual. "That card is key. You were quite correct, John; this man is new money: flashy clothes, flashy car- he strikes me as a Bentley man, totally impractical for the streets of London, so exactly the sort of statement he would make. You were also right that-"

"Swot," Lestrade muttered quietly.

John stuck his tongue out and they both grinned.

"Yes, thank you, children," Sherlock said with an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes heavenwards. Sally just shook her head and pulled a face that seemed to imply that she agreed with Sherlock’s assessment and disliked that agreement.

"As I was saying. John was right that some men do care about the level of dust in their home." Sherlock managed to make it sound like these men seriously needed to sort out their priorities. "But this man has a wife. And before you let your rampant feminism take hold, Donovan," he said loudly, talking over Sally’s spluttering protests, "I am merely pointing out that our dead man is married. The very presence of this business card proves, in fact, that this man _doesn’t_ treat his wife as his housekeeper."

"And for the record," John added, "Sherlock doesn’t care _who_ does the housework, just as long as its not him."

"Obviously," Sherlock said.

"No one cares about your domestic arrangements. What about this bloody card?!" Donovan snapped. Clearly her already minimal tolerance for Sherlock had reached its end.

"If people stopped interrupting me I’d tell you," Sherlock said with a glare.

John manfully resisted sticking his tongue out again. He reflected for a moment on how quickly he’d grown used to acting inappropriately at crime scenes. Then he decided it was no different to the gallows humour he and his fellow soldiers used to cope with the horrors they faced while fighting a war. He turned his attention back to Sherlock.

"So, this is a man who likes to flash his money about, he’s not the sort to allow any wife of his to do such menial things as housework, yet he’s not so 'new man' as to organise the hired help himself."

"So why did he have the maid’s card on him?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock smiled. "Excellent question, Lestrade! A better one would be: why did he have the card loose in his pocket as opposed to in his wallet, along with all the other business cards he must have amassed?"

Typical Sherlock, John thought; he giveth with one sentence and taketh away with the next. Still, Lestrade seemed happy to have got even the less good question.

"The answer is that he’s having an affair with the maid. Her husband found out and killed him. Boring, Lestrade. Why did you call me in for this?" He turned with a dramatic swirl of coat tails- did he practise that, John wondered- and headed for the mouth of the alley.

"Sherlock?" John called, starting after him.

"I’m going to St Barts; there’s an experiment I need to perform. I'll meet you back at Baker Street later, John," Sherlock replied as he vanished round the corner.

“Sherlock!” John called once more, but the man in question didn’t reply, already out of earshot, or, more likely, just ignoring him.

John closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky momentarily, before sighing as he let his head drop to where he could pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I thought he’d stopped doing that,” Lestrade said.

John opened his eyes and looked across at the other man. Lestrade seemed amused at John’s abandonment, but also sympathetic. A quick glance at Donovan showed she was just amused.

“So did I,” John replied. “Apparently that’s only if we’re working a case.”

“Huh. Well, seeing as you’re at a loose end, do you want to grab a coffee?”

John was a little surprised by the suggestion; they were acquaintances through Sherlock and via various murder scenes, and that memorable drugs bust, but they hadn’t really talked much. Still, John thought Lestrade seemed like a decent bloke and it might be nice to get to know his fellow Sherlock-handler a bit better.

“Yes, ok, why not,” he said. “But what about…“ he waved a hand at the dead body and surrounding alley.

“I’ve been here since 6am, and if I don’t get caffeine soon it won’t be pretty.” John glanced at his watch: 10:36am. Definitely time for a caffeine injection.

“Besides, that’s the beauty of being the boss; I have minions I can delegate to. And don’t look at me like that, Sally. You’ll have my job one day and you’ll see exactly what I mean.”

Donovan rolled her eyes- something she did almost as often as Sherlock- and said, “Yes, sir. I’ll get on with tracking down the maid’s husband and this man’s identity then.”

“Excellent, Sergeant. Excellent. Call me when you get something,” Lestrade said as he turned and started for the mouth of the alley. John grinned to himself; Lestrade might be willing to delegate, but he didn’t want to miss out on any developments either.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Greg led John to a little café round the corner from the crime scene. Luckily, it was still early enough to avoid the lunch crowd, so they were served quickly and got a table away from the few other customers.

Greg had been tempted into buying the freshly baked danish and he started unwinding it, breaking a piece off and popping it into his mouth. "Oh god that’s good," he moaned, not realising quite how pornographic he sounded until John giggled. Honest-to-god giggled, which Lestrade refused to find cute. He had enough trouble with thoughts about Sherlock; he didn’t need the added complication of thinking about John Watson too.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, blushing faintly.

"No, no, I quite understand. When pastry’s good, it’s _good_." John teased.

Greg pulled a face. "Shut up. It _is_ good and I didn’t have breakfast."

"Don’t tell me I’ve got to start making sure you remember to eat and drink now, too? I have enough of that with Sherlock!"

"Hey, I’m not that bad! I mostly remember to eat when I’m not at a crime scene," Greg protested. 'Not that I’d mind being looked after by the good doctor,' said a treacherous voice in his head. 'Stop it!' he told himself viciously. 'I’m not doing this.'

He took the opportunity John had unwittingly given him to change the subject. "Speaking of Sherlock, you seem to have settled in ok- you've not killed him, or been done in by one of his ridiculous experiments."

John smiled. "Yeah, it’s going well. The eyeballs in the microwave and the head in the fridge took some getting used to and I have to admit it’s sometimes hard to resist the urge to throttle him. Oh, and that drugs bust was memorable, too, so thanks for that," he added with a quirked eyebrow.

Greg gave him another sheepish look. "Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve found it’s the most effective way to give everyone what they want."

"And what’s that?" John enquired.

"Well, Sherlock gets to play his games, I get whatever evidence he’s been withholding, and Donovan and Anderson get to work off some of their Sherlock-related steam. Everyone’s a winner."

John gave a little sideways tilt of his head in acknowledgment, then frowned. "Can’t you do something about them?"

"Who, Donovan and Anderson?"

"Yes. Look, I realise I’ve only been here five minutes, but the way those two treat Sherlock- like he’s interfering when it's you who asks him to the crime scenes in the first place, calling him names…”

Greg bristled slightly, always one to step up and defend his team to outsiders. “You must have noticed that Sherlock gives as good as he gets, Doctor.”

“Yes, it’s pretty hard to miss,” John replied with a little bit of bite in his tone, though Lestrade couldn’t tell if that was a result of his own more confrontational tone, or due to some memory of Sherlock’s sharp tongue. It only lasted a moment and John’s tone was back to normal as he continued with, “but at least Sherlock has the nominal excuse of having the social skills and brain-to-mouth filter of a five-year-old.”

Greg gave a small chuckle and relaxed. He didn’t want to argue with John and, truthfully, he did sometimes think Sally and Daniel went too far, seeming to drive each other into more biting remarks and name-calling. He didn’t think John needed to worry, as Sherlock seemed unconcerned and really did get the best shots in without even trying. He thought it was nice that John felt protective of Sherlock, though, as the young man could surely only benefit from having a real friend at last.

“I did try to rein it in at the beginning,” he confessed.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It… didn’t go so well. Sherlock, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, won’t be told what to do, so he carried on regardless, hurling his insults, and I think he was actually disappointed not to get a response. It was definitely killing Sally and Daniel to bite their tongues, especially as Sherlock got more and more personal to try to bait them both.

“In the end it blew up spectacularly at a crime scene. I had to kick all three of them off the scene to cool down. It was like sending three overgrown children to the naughty step. I think I even frightened Sherlock, because I was so angry with them. He certainly left meekly enough. It all blew over after a few days and I just decided it was easier to leave them to find their own balance.”

Greg could laugh about it now, but he remembered how tense things had been and his own anger at the unprofessional argument at a murder scene. He’d never had to kick anyone off a crime scene before and he would never have imagined that his own people would’ve been among the first. Sherlock, yes. He often found himself trying to keep Sherlock away from crime scenes, but that was a different matter.

John seemed placated by Greg’s recollection. “Ok, fair enough. I’ll leave them to it.”

Greg didn’t believe that. He fully expected John to get dragged into the feud at some point. John seemed fairly sensible and laid back on the surface, but Greg didn’t kid himself that that was the whole truth, not with how quickly he’d adapted to life with Sherlock. Greg had already seen little glimpses of the steel John kept hidden and knew that he’d be playing responsible adult to four overgrown children in the end.

He sighed in resignation, but had to admit to a bit of anticipation regarding how surprised Donovan and Anderson would be when John finally snapped and spoke up. He hoped he’d have his camera handy at the right time.

Things were quiet for a moment or two as they both drank their coffee and Greg ate the last few bites of his pastry. Then he moved the conversation to other topics, getting to know John a bit better. It was a bit cliché, perhaps, but Greg started on relatively safe ground and asked John which football team he supported.

“Well, I’m not a hardened supporter. I don’t go to every match come hell or high water, but I do like to keep an eye on West Ham when I can,” John said.

Greg smiled. “Hey, that’s my team, too. Go Hammers! Did you catch any of the match last Saturday? That goal by McCarthy was inspired.”

Before long, Greg’s phone rang. Sally told him they’d identified the dead man and located the lead suspect. He downed his coffee, watching John do the same, and they both headed for the door.

“Thanks for the company, Doctor Watson,” he said.

“John, please.”

“Ok. John,” he said with a smile, before returning the gesture, “Greg.”

John smiled. “So that’s what the G stands for.”

They passed through the door and stopped on the pavement. Greg held his hand out for a quick handshake, “We should go out for a pint sometime, maybe catch a game,” he said. Though neither of them were avid fans, content to catch a match on the telly instead of fighting through the crowds at the home stadium, it was more fun to watch the game on TV with someone to cheer the team on and boo the opposition.

“I’d like that,” John said. His hand was warm when it clasped Greg’s and he had to force himself to let go after a few seconds.

‘What the hell is wrong with you, Lestrade?!’ he berated himself as he walked back to the crime scene to see what Sally had for him. ‘Stop acting like a school girl with a crush!’ He tried to rid his mind of blue eyes and dark blond hair and was relieved when he caught sight of Donovan.

“Freak was right, sir,” she said grudgingly as Greg drew along side. He took a quick look around and saw that the body had been removed and forensics were packing up what they’d found. “The dead man was Marcus West, three months into his tenth year at Pegasus. I’ve got an address and the wife needs to be informed. Uniforms are bringing in David Springfield, the maid’s husband.”

“Good work, Sally. You and I will interview Springfield. Get uniform to inform the wife and we’ll head over there when we’ve got something to tell the poor woman.”

“Sir,” Donovan said, pulling her phone from her pocket and calling the Yard as she and Lestrade turned to leave, heading for their cars.

Lestrade climbed into his car and dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel for a moment. Sally’s mention of Sherlock, even in her typically derogatory way, had cleared the image of John’s face from Lestrade’s mind quite nicely… only to replace it with a different set of blue eyes and dark hair. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Clearly he was going insane. There was no other explanation.

He opened his eyes and started the car, pulling into the traffic and heading for the Yard. Maybe interviewing their suspected murderer would help clear his mind.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sherlock didn’t go to St Barts; instead he ducked down the next alley and peered back the way he’d come. He _was_ conducting an experiment, that much was true- he wanted to see what John and Lestrade did without him there.

He’d solved the case in minutes, but he’d been intrigued by his... friends’ interaction, so had prolonged things until Donovan had arrived and skewed the data. Though it had been interesting to note that her appearance hadn’t completely halted the teasing.

He had decided to see whether things continued without him there and he only had to wait a few minutes to get his answer, as John and Lestrade emerged from the alley together and headed down the road to a coffee shop.

Sherlock waited until they’d gone inside, then moved to a better vantage point. "Interesting," he muttered to himself as they sat at a table. It was a four-seater and Sherlock’s observations of human interaction had shown him that two people of John and Lestrade’s disposition- quite guarded, private men- having their first social meeting, should sit opposite, but John and Lestrade sat next to each other.

Sherlock briefly debated whether the subject of their conversation was of any interest, but decided that lip-reading would take too much focus and he’d be better served by watching all the body language. So he watched Lestrade pick apart some pastry and then look embarrassed as John laughed. He watched them both smile before John frowned and Lestrade became annoyed, clearly making a point as he leant forward. But it passed quickly and they were soon smiling and laughing once more, though Sherlock noticed that Lestrade never leant all the way back again.

The coffee was gone before long and Sherlock watched as the two men paused outside the doorway for a quick handshake before going their separate ways. Lestrade headed back to the crime scene, while John walked off the other way. Sherlock wanted some time alone to think about what he’d seen. He didn’t know if John was going straight home or not, but he decided to walk rather than take a taxi just in case.

It seemed that John and Lestrade were harbouring an attraction for one another and Sherlock didn’t know how he felt about that. Despite what he liked people to believe, he did have feelings; it was just that most of humanity only made him feel contempt and/or anger. Lestrade and John, however, were two of the very few people Sherlock felt other things about.

He knew he didn’t respond to his feelings the same way most ‘normal’ people did. Most people didn’t get excited when there was a gruesome murder to solve, and most people didn’t shoot holes in their walls when they were bored.

He knew that both John and Lestrade were attracted to him by observing all the same things he’d seen between them in the café- eye contact that went on a touch too long, expanded pupils, being comfortable inside his personal space. They both tried to hide it, of course, but they should have realised that they had very few secrets from Sherlock.

He was never quite sure how he felt about their attraction, though. He’d had more time to consider his response to Lestrade, but found that John brought out similar reactions: he didn’t mind them in his space, or even touching him, when most people who did that made Sherlock feel faintly violated, like their idiocy might rub off on him. He was never truly bothered by John or Lestrade’s bouts of idiocy, though, beyond the annoyance of knowing they could do better. They usually caught on in the end and even managed occasional leaps of brilliance. It made him want to nurture their potential instead of dismiss them as imbeciles along with the rest of humanity.

He enjoyed John’s company at the flat and had, surprisingly given the circumstances, enjoyed living at Lestrade’s for a few weeks while he got clean. Yet he’d always felt vaguely stifled at the family home and he’d detested sharing a room at college, even though Robert Wood had been quiet, tidy and fairly tolerant of Sherlock’s eccentricities.

And he cared what they thought. He disliked it if they were angry with him, even if he was in the right. He always got a funny tingling feeling when they were impressed by his deductions, or when they teased him affectionately (and he could tell the difference between them and the likes of Anderson).

Mycroft had told him many times over the last five years that he was attracted to Lestrade and that he should try having a normal relationship with him. He had also twice said the same about John in the months since they’d moved in together, pointing out that it would be even easier to have a relationship with the former soldier because he was right there in the same flat.

But Sherlock had a policy of dismissing everything Mycroft said, besides which, whether he started something with John or Lestrade, odds were the other man would want sex. Sherlock had tried it a few times and while the moment of orgasm was briefly pleasing, the act itself had turned out to be loud and messy and involved entirely too much contact with somebody else’s naked, sweaty skin. He’d tried it with men and women, just to make sure he hadn’t simply picked the wrong partner or gender, but all the results had been much the same and he’d discovered that his own hand brought the same pleasure with much less noise and mess.

No, it was for the best that Lestrade and John turn their attentions to each other. So why did the thought of them together make Sherlock feel out of sorts? He suspected Mycroft would tell him he was jealous, but that was absurd. Sherlock decided to simply stop thinking about it. John and Lestrade were both adults and were free to do what they pleased.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

John didn’t get much chance to see Greg over the next few weeks. One of the doctors at the clinic had a week’s holiday, and John jumped at the chance to earn a little extra money covering her shifts. Sherlock had got better at letting John work, limiting himself to texts and the occasional file for John to read through between patients. However, once it got to 6pm, John’s time was Sherlock’s and two nights in a row that meant running round London for most of the night. After the time he fell asleep at work, John was careful not to over do the late nights. His body had adjusted somewhat to Sherlock’s odd timekeeping, but he quickly decided not to risk it with an evening at the pub.

The following week, Sherlock and John had a case that took them to Wales for four days. John was worn out by the time they got back on Friday and slept for most of the day. Once he woke up he made plans to meet Greg down at the pub on Saturday night. He invited Sherlock as well, but got an odd look and a “no” in response. John quirked an eyebrow, but put it down to Sherlock not wanting to spend any time surrounded by morons, as he would probably see it.

Greg started things off by chatting about football and John reciprocated with details of the Welsh case, which he’d yet to put in his blog. They discovered a shared love of old 60’s cult TV and spent a good while reminiscing about _The Prisoner, The Champions, The Man from U.N.C.L.E._ and the like.

Eventually it got to chucking out time. John checked his watch, unable to believe it was 11pm and that the one hour, maybe two, that he’d expected had turned into four without him noticing.

"Huh."

“Well you know what they say about time flying," Lestrade said with a smile, as he finished the last of his pint and stood.

John followed suit, returning the smile. “The strangest thing is that in all that time, we’ve not been interrupted by Sherlock once.”

“That _is_ weird,” Lestrade agreed. “You’d better head home and check he’s not done himself in with one of his experiments,” he chuckled.

John laughed too, though there was always that tiny grain of worry that Sherlock might well do himself an injury one day. Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder and they once again went their separate ways with an agreement to do it again soon.

John headed back to Baker Street and found Sherlock sitting in his chair with his knees drawn up to his chin, watching the TV. He did a double take. “Sherlock, why on earth are you watching _X-Factor_?”

“I’m investigating the correlation between attractiveness, the inability to carry a note and the judges’ choices,” Sherlock replied, barely glancing John’s way.

John thought about that for a moment. It really did seem that singing ability often took second place to attractiveness on these talent shows. But that wasn’t new and John couldn’t see why Sherlock would need to investigate it when it was regularly emblazoned across every newspaper and news programme in existence.

“You were bored, weren’t you? I told you you should’ve come with me.”

“After the last time I accompanied you on your date?” Sherlock asked sardonically.

John spluttered momentarily. “I wasn’t on a date; I was merely having a drink with a friend. And anyway, it wasn’t so much you accompanying Sarah and I as it was you gate-crashing a date you set up knowing full well it could put her in danger!”

“If you say so,” Sherlock dismissed.

“I do,” John said with finality, before changing the subject. “Tea?”

“Please.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Greg had enjoyed his evening with John so much that he called and arranged a second meeting that same week. Things went much as before, with them chatting about various subjects, branching out from football to other sports, talking about the music they liked, the comedians they found funny, and what they thought of the recent political goings-on.

Despite his best efforts, Greg found himself unable to keep John in the ‘just good friends’ category. But he was honest enough with himself to know that his best efforts hadn’t really been very stringent. He liked John as a friend, but he also found him attractive, and it had been awhile since Greg had found those two things in one person. He didn’t go in for casual sex and he didn’t really have time for making many friends outside the force, so John was a godsend. A cynical part of his mind also pointed out that John was likely more attainable than Sherlock, but Greg shut that voice up quickly.

He found himself watching John for clues. He knew the other man had been seeing a woman called Sarah not so long ago, but John never talked about her, so he assumed it hadn’t lasted. There didn’t seem to be anyone new on the scene. So Greg watched John watch other people, trying to gauge his interest in women, looking for any sign of interest in men. He certainly got why everyone assumed John and Sherlock were together, but he didn’t believe it himself, mostly because he knew how Sherlock viewed relationships. What he couldn’t quite decide was whether John’s reactions to Sherlock contained any kind of unrequited feelings. And he watched for any hint that John might return his affections, but he’d not managed to make any conclusions so far.

His best opportunity came when, during their second evening at the pub, John announced, “You know, Sherlock thinks we’re dating.”

“Does he?” he replied, keeping his voice light to match the slightly amused tone John had used. Inside, though, his detective instincts were analysing John. He didn’t seem upset at the idea, so he either didn’t take it seriously, or, at least, wasn’t offended by the idea of someone thinking he was gay. But then, he’d had to get used to that since moving in with Sherlock.

“Yes. That’s why he never comes out with us.”

And that was a clue right there. John invited Sherlock to their evenings at the pub, which really seemed to prove that he didn’t see their meetings as dates. Not a good sign. But then, John was a decent sort of bloke and it probably didn’t sit well with him to leave his friend at home whilst he went out to meet up with a mutual friend. He probably wouldn’t invite Sherlock along if he didn’t know Greg as well.

Maybe.

It would need more investigating and Greg would get the chance the next weekend, as he and John had arranged another trip to the pub.

Things didn’t go according to plan, however. Friday saw a terrible case land in his lap.

Whatever the television claimed, being an inspector in the Met’s CID was not glamorous and was quite often incredibly dull. A lot of Greg’s time was taken up doing paperwork in his office, writing performance reviews, overseeing his various officers and their cases and sitting in meetings.

Many of the crimes he saw were routine: thefts, assaults, the odd fraud case. Even most of the murders he saw were sad but straightforward, the murderer easily found and the confession easily gained.

But, occasionally, more frequently than he liked, Greg got a case that hit hard. Friday saw just such a case. A woman and her three-year-old daughter had been brutally murdered. It wasn’t hard to solve it- the killer left the scene, but was found by tea time. He confessed easily enough: the woman was his girlfriend and he’d found out she’d had an affair around the time she got pregnant. He’d accused her of letting him believe the baby was his, when she had really been the daughter of the other man. In a drunken rage he’d killed them both, then fled the scene in a panic.

Most police officers were more affected when a case involved a child, but it was always more personal for Greg, who was reminded of the daughter he had lost.

Granted, she hadn’t died due to some hideous crime like many of the cases he dealt with. No, Alison Lestrade had died from meningitis, aged eighteen months. But that loss of potential, that wasted life was the same no matter how the life ended and it always caused Greg to mourn the loss; of the child in the case, of Alison and of the marriage that fell apart with her death.

Consequently, when Greg dragged himself home after finishing off all the paperwork for the case, he didn’t feel up to going out to the pub. Even the thought of seeing John couldn’t snap him out of his funk. So he called John’s mobile a few hours before they were due to meet up.

 _“Hi, Greg,”_ John greeted.

“John. Listen, I’m going to have to cancel tonight, I’m afraid.”

 _“Everything alright?”_ John asked and Greg quirked a tiny smile at his friend’s concern and slightly disappointed tone.

“Yeah. Just a tough day at work. I don’t think I’ll be very good company. I’ll take a rain check, though,” he said.

 _“Of course, don’t worry about it. We can get together in a day or two, cases permitting.”_

“Definitely. Thanks, John. I’ll see you soon,” he said, hanging up once John had said goodbye.

He chucked his phone down on the coffee table and sat back in the armchair he’d dropped into as soon as he got home, sighing heavily. Talking to John, even for those few moments, had lightened his mood a little, but the blackness quickly descended again.

The urge to drink was strong, but he resisted. It hadn’t helped the first time round, when he all but abandoned his wife in favour of trying to drown his despair at Alison’s death. Instead, he sat in his armchair, staring at nothing and trying to make his mind blank, while the sun went down and the only light in the room was the sickly orange of the streetlight down the road.

A knock at the door roused him and he looked at his watch, surprised by how dark it was. He’d been sat there for nearly three hours, which explained why he felt so hungry. He thought about ignoring whoever was at the door- there were no lights on, so he could pretend he wasn’t in. The idea held appeal, but his car was there for anyone who knew him to see and there was always the possibility it was Agnes, his ninety-three-year-old neighbour, who had given him a spare key because she kept locking herself out. Depressed as he was, he wouldn’t leave an elderly lady out on her doorstep all night. Especially not a retired baker who still kept her hand in and liked to give him half of whatever cake or batch of biscuits she’d made.

He hauled himself up and made for the front door, turning a few lights on as he went. Rather than finding Agnes and half a Battenberg when he opened the door, however, he came face to face with John, a pizza box and a six pack of beer.

"It’s a bit of a cliché, I know," John said, lifting his offerings in emphasis, "but you sounded down on the phone and I thought it might cheer you up a little. Feel free to tell me to piss off."

Greg, touched by the genuine concern in John’s eyes, stepped aside and said, "No, please come on in."

“You ok?” John asked, giving him a once over as he stepped inside.

Greg glanced down at himself and realised he was still wearing his somewhat rumpled work suit, right down to his shoes. Feeling faintly embarrassed, Greg said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Do you mind if I go and change into something more comfortable?”

John grinned. “At least now I’m not alone with the clichés.”

Greg frowned, brain not quite switched out of brooding mode, then he got it and blushed a little. He’d have to watch himself before he gave away his feelings. He tried to think of a response he could make that wouldn’t just make things worse, but John saved him.

“It’s fine. Go change and I’ll hunt down a couple of plates,” he said gently.

Greg made his escape. He dressed on autopilot, too busy trying to get his mind under control to consider what he was pulling on. He was stuck between the despair of earlier and happiness at John being there in his house. He knew he had to rein it in. John was perceptive, more and more so the longer he worked with Sherlock, and he didn’t want to give away the depths of either emotion. He wanted to present a more moderate view- a man who was sad at a tough case and happy to see a friend. That was all.

His cold toes reminded him to put socks on and the first pair he picked out of his drawer had a hole in one toe. He swapped them for a less embarrassing pair, not wanting John to either think him a slob or pity him for not even being able to buy new socks.

Suitably attired, he headed back out into the living room and found John sitting on the couch, with two plates, the open pizza box and two cans of Carlesberg sitting on the coffee table. He moved to sit next to John and they smiled at each other, then set about devouring the pizza.

They ate in silence, but it was companionable. Greg found himself ever more grateful to John for showing up like he had. He’d told the truth about not being good company when he’d cancelled their night out, but John wasn’t pressuring him to be any sort of company. He felt the tension slowly drain away and his mind start to settle.

The pizza was polished off in short order and they finished their first cans of beer. Greg set his plate on the table, then leant back, tipping his head onto the back of the couch with his eyes closed. He opened them after a moment and rolled his head to the side so he could see John. “Thanks for this,” he said.

“No problem. It’s what friends do.” John moved, gathering up the plates and empties.

“Hey, that should be my job,” Greg said, starting to get up.

“No, you just relax; I’ve got this. It’s actually a refreshing change to walk into a kitchen and just find kitchen things in there.”

Greg barked a short laugh at John’s dry comment and settled back again. “Then by all means, have at it.”

John smirked and headed out of the room, returning a few minutes later with another pair of beers. He handed one to Greg as he retook his seat. Silence descended again as they opened their cans and drank, then John turned just slightly towards Greg. “Want to talk about it?” he asked.

Greg opened his mouth to automatically say no, but found that he did want to talk about it. At first he stuck to the bad case, which was horrific enough in its own right. No one should have to see a child in that state.

But John was easy to talk to and before he knew it, he was telling him all about Alison and how he drove Gina away after they lost their little girl. John mostly just listened, letting his doctor’s compassion show on his face, but not trying to offer the usual platitudes. Greg supposed that came from being a doctor and a soldier, having experienced his own losses and knowing there was nothing anyone could say that really made it better.

“Gina left in the end, although you could say I left her first,” he said. “That was five years ago.”

“I’m sorry, Greg. It must have been an awful time,” John said.

“It was, but then I met Sherlock and he unwittingly helped me through it.”

“Oh?” John said, and Greg would’ve laughed at John’s expression if he hadn’t been feeling so raw- the man couldn’t hide his interest in hearing how Greg had met Sherlock.

“Yeah. I worked hard, you know? Trying to take my mind off it all. I stayed late, after everyone else had left for the night and I followed leads on my own. One night, about three months after Gina left, I was sitting in a café watching a building across the street. I was hoping to catch a drug dealer and petty thief. Not one of the more exciting cases CID deals with, but I didn’t care at that point.

“So, I’m staring out the window and suddenly this kid drops into the chair on the other side of the table and proceeds to tell me all about the case, the whereabouts of the bad guy and a whole load of other incredible facts.”

“Sherlock,” John said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Sherlock. At first I was annoyed. He’d pegged me as a copper straight away and had managed to work out who I was after as well Naturally, I first assumed he was somehow involved. He was clearly high on something, so I presumed he was a client of the dealer, or maybe a rival dealer who wanted to get rid of the competition.”

“Wait. So the drugs bust last month was really a drugs bust?” John said, looking shocked.

“Oh. No, sorry. He’s clean now; I really do just do that to get the evidence he’s hiding. But back then… That’s how he helped me, actually. I was feeling pretty pathetic and then along comes Sherlock. He was a mess, high on cocaine, pretty much broke, because the stupid bugger wouldn’t let his brother help him-“

“No change there then,” John muttered.

“There’s nowt so stubborn as a Holmes, I’ve discovered over the past five years. Have you met Mycroft? They’re both as bad as each other.”

“I’ve had the dubious pleasure, yes. He abducted me the first night I met Sherlock; tried to offer me money to spy on Sherlock and report back.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” They shared an exasperated grin, then Greg went back to his story. “So, anyway, Sherlock was a mess and wouldn’t accept any help from Mycroft. I was fascinated by his ability to figure out crimes, so I checked him out and was… assured… by Mycroft that Sherlock wasn’t a criminal. What’s more, Sherlock gave me someone to look after, someone worse off than me who I could help and, in concentrating on getting Sherlock clean, I took my mind off my own troubles for awhile.

“He lived here with me for about six weeks while he got clean and I took him with me to the Yard to keep an eye on him, so, of course, he stuck his nose into all sorts of cases. He solved them, he got clean, I talked the bosses into paying him for consulting and he eventually got enough cash that he could rent a small flat of his own.”

“No wonder you can put up with him,” John said, looking as if a big puzzle piece had just slotted into place.

“How you manage it,” Greg asked curiously.

John smiled. “He’s fascinating and he lets me stop thinking about my own life. I mean, all I’ve known for so long is the Army and being in a war zone. It’s such an odd place to be, you know? It’s intense, it’s stressful and it builds such deep bonds with your comrades. They become like brothers.

“And suddenly, half my brothers are dead and the rest are half-way round the world. I’m out, I can’t watch their backs anymore, I’ve got a leg and shoulder that don’t work, no friends or family to speak of, other than a sister I hardly speak to. I can’t get a job, I can’t afford a place to live and it all just seemed terribly empty. Until a friend introduced me to Sherlock and I’m suddenly running round London, the adrenaline’s back, the leg’s better, I’ve got somewhere to call home and I’m alive again. It was just what I needed and he has many faults, but he’s really an ok bloke when you get past the surface,” John concluded.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, he is.” He was pleased that John had opened up so much. He’d been grateful to talk about his own sadness, but it made him feel even better to know that John was more than just a friendly ear and was willing to reciprocate by revealing some of his own difficulties.

He pushed up from the couch and retrieved the last two cans of Carlesberg, offering one to John and waiting until they’d both opened them before lifting his in a toast. “To Sherlock,” he said.

John smiled and returned the toast and they knocked their cans together.

All talked out for the moment, a comfortable silence descended once more as they drank. The day caught up with Greg: stress and emotional release, coupled with the food and alcohol, had him yawning before he could stop himself.

John caught it and sat up with a smirk. “Well, I guess that’s my cue to head home,” he said, starting to stand up.

Before he could think about it, Greg had reached over and grabbed John’s wrist. “Stay,” he said quietly, meeting John’s eyes.

"Greg?" John said, looking understandably confused, but encouragingly not running for the door- there were, after all, only so many ways John could take his request. Still, John sat back down, questioning eyes locked on Greg’s.

'What have I done?' Greg asked himself in a brief, panicked, moment. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, took a deep breath and decided he might as well go for it, since he’d already opened his big mouth. Opening his eyes again, he tried to let his feelings show in them, as he leant towards John, quick enough that he didn’t have time to chicken out, but slow enough that John could avoid it if he wanted to.

It was a shock when his lips pressed gently against John’s; he’d fully expected the other man to pull away in horror, to punch him, or to run away. He pulled back almost as soon as he’d made contact, anxiously checking John’s reaction.

John still looked confused, eyes comically wide and mouth a surprised ‘O’, but his expression soon changed, first to a small smile and then to a vulnerable look Greg wasn’t sure what to do with.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” John replied.

“You don’t mind? Because I’d like to do that again.”

“I don’t mind,” John said. Greg smiled and leant in again, but John put a hand on his chest to stop him and it was Greg’s turn to look confused. “But you just said-“

“I know. I really don’t mind, but I want to make sure you know what you’re doing. You’ve had a long day, you’ve revealed some of your most painful memories and you’ve had a few drinks. I don’t want you to regret starting something and I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Greg smiled gently. Typical John, always thinking of others. “I know what I’m doing and I know what I want. Three beers is hardly enough to impair my judgment that much and I actually feel better after talking about all that stuff, lighter somehow.

“If it helps, I’ve been thinking about this for awhile. Sherlock was right about us going on dates. Oh, I didn’t intend it at the start, but after the first few times I found myself looking forward to our get-togethers much more than I could explain away platonically. I didn’t want to lose your friendship by trying for more and once you mentioned that you’d invited Sherlock along to all our evenings, I assumed you were only interested in friendship.”

John looked sheepish, but pleased. “Sorry. I tend to be a bit slow on the uptake where men are concerned. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it, too.”

That confession was music to Greg’s ears. “So…” he said.

John grinned, then moved forward, reaching his left hand up to the back of Greg’s neck and pulling him in for an exploratory kiss. It started slow and close-lipped as they tested the waters, but it didn’t stay that way for long.

Greg reached out a hand of his own, resting it on John’s shoulder. The angle was awkward, so he started shuffling round until he had one leg pulled underneath him on the couch and an arm resting on the back cushion. John moved with him until he was mirroring his position and they were much closer. That was better.

By some sort of mutual agreement, the kiss deepened as they both opened their mouths and touched tongue tips. Greg groaned faintly and his eyes closed. He pulled John nearer still and slipped his tongue fully into John’s mouth, exploring, tasting pizza and beer.

It was John’s turn to moan and Greg felt the hand on his neck move up into his hair and start playing with the short strands, pulling them slightly and caressing his scalp. He coaxed John’s tongue into his own mouth, enjoying the sensations created as it ran along his teeth and palate, almost tickling.

John’s other hand tugged Greg forward by the waist and John laid back, until Greg blanketed the smaller body. Greg worried briefly that he’d squash the smaller man, but it was John’s idea and he had been a soldier, so he was tougher than he looked.

Most of his brain was lost in the new sensations the change in position caused. He relished the feel of solid muscle beneath him, until the urge to touch became too strong to resist and his hands started wandering freely. John’s hands also started to move, roaming up and down Greg’s back, getting bolder with each pass until they reached his arse and squeezed.

Greg groaned and thrust once against John’s thigh. He was half-hard and could feel that John was in a similar state. The kiss became more and more frantic and the need to touch John became stronger, until he couldn’t bear it anymore and pulled back.

John gave a small whine of protest, but that died quickly when he saw that Greg had only broken the kiss to remove his jumper. Once he was out of it, he reached down to help John out of his heavy jumper. That wasn’t enough, however, and the t-shirts went next, joining the jumpers in a heap at the side of the settee.

They took a moment to simply look at each other. He didn’t know what John saw- he knew he was in good shape, but he wasn’t some Adonis. John didn’t seem put off, so Greg stopped worrying and looked his fill. John was toned and fit, but not overly developed. He couldn’t miss the scar on John’s shoulder, still recent enough to look red and angry.

Of course he’d known that John had been shot in Afghanistan, but it had been academic knowledge until he was suddenly face-to-face with the proof. It struck him that the man lying beneath him could have died before they’d ever met and that seemed indescribably wrong. He reached out and gently touched the scar, not wanting to hurt John.

“Greg,” John whispered and Greg looked up, struck by the vulnerability once more on display in John’s eyes; it was almost as if he expected Greg to reject him after seeing the ugly scar.

Wanting to reassure John, Greg leant down and gently kissed the marred skin, before returning to John’s mouth and devouring it forcefully. John moaned and started once again running his hands over all of Greg he could reach.

Greg didn’t lie fully on top of John, keeping enough space between them that he could get a hand on John’s chest. John was warm and surprisingly smooth, and beautifully responsive when Greg rubbed over his nipples, so he concentrated on them for a few minutes, pulling and rolling them between his fingers until John was a writhing, panting mess beneath him.

Greg was panting fairly well himself, so he pulled away from John’s mouth and started exploring elsewhere, alternating little kisses, nips and licks along John’s jaw to his ear. He sucked the lobe into his mouth and John bucked up against him, moaning loudly. Greg filed away that erogenous area for future reference and moved down John’s neck to explore his collarbone- more moans and sighs from John. He moved on again, wanting to see how John responded when he sucked a nipple into his mouth. John cried out, bucking so hard he nearly tumbled Greg to the floor.

It brought a moment of sanity back to Greg and he realised he didn’t want their first time to be on the couch like a pair of horny teenagers. He sat back and then climbed off of John, who groaned in protest, glaring at Greg from half-closed eyes. Greg grinned at the sight. “Come on. Bed. I’m too old to have sex on the settee.”

John’s expression cleared and he accepted the hand Greg offered to help pull himself upright. He raised an eyebrow when Greg chuckled and followed Greg’s gaze to his feet, which were still wearing boots. John huffed in amusement before bending down to unlace and remove them. It gave Greg an excellent view of John’s smooth back. He noticed that there was no scar there, meaning the bullet had lodged in John’s body. He knew from autopsy reports the kind of mess a bullet made when it stayed inside the human body instead of passing through the other side and he once again realised how lucky it was that John was there with him.

John straightened up, having removed boots and socks. He eyed Greg for a moment, then moved his hands to his waist, pausing there as if waiting for a sign. The movement drew Greg’s eyes to John’s crotch and he could see that the other man was fully hard, just like himself.

This was it, the point of no return. They could probably go back to some semblance of normalcy if they stopped there and then. Yes, they’d kissed, but there had been no really intimate touching and no x-rated visuals. If they got naked, it would be that much harder to go back to simply being friends.

Luckily, Greg had no desire to go back to being just friends, so he copied John’s movements and brought his hands to the button of his jeans. John grinned and nodded and they both started undoing buttons and zips. With deep breath and one more glance at John, Greg hooked his thumbs inside his boxers and pushed it all off, stepping free of his jeans and pulling his socks off.

He stood up and looked at John to find the other man frozen, staring with obvious desire at Greg’s naked body. The heat in that look went straight to Greg’s cock and he moaned slightly, then stepped closer and shoved John’s trousers and boxers down for him. “Taking too long,” he growled, before stepping back to get his own look at the naked body before him.

As with John’s chest, his legs were strong, muscled, but not overly so. There was a scar on his right thigh, though nowhere near as painful-looking as the bullet wound. The limp may have been psychosomatic, but there had clearly been some sort of damage there to make John’s brain believe he needed a cane. John didn’t have much body hair, except at his groin, but once Greg looked there, he was captivated by John’s cock, standing proud and flushed. Greg gave into the masculine urge to compare cock size. John’s cock was a little smaller than his own, but the rest of John was smaller, too, so that was no real surprise.

“Like what you see?” John asked, arousal making his voice deeper.

Instead of answering, Greg stepped in close again and pulled John into a fierce kiss with one hand, while grasping his cock with the other, giving it a good squeeze.

John moaned and clutched at Greg’s shoulders for a moment, before he used that grip to push Greg back slightly. Greg growled in protest, but John’s gasped, “bed!” reminded him of his plan. He reluctantly let go of John’s cock and grabbed a hand instead, using it to pull John after him into the bedroom.

He pushed John down onto the bed and wasted no time straddling him. “Bloody cave man,” John accused, but Greg noticed he didn’t seem at all bothered by it, so he didn’t bother to reply, instead diving in for another kiss.

John was far from passive, reaching round Greg’s body to grab two handfuls of arse, which he used to pull Greg flush against him. They both moaned at the sensation as their cocks rubbed together. Greg started thrusting down against John, the grip John still had on his arse adding extra force and increasing the delicious friction.

The frantic kissing degenerated with the need for oxygen, until they were simply panting into each other’s mouths, foreheads pressed together and eyes locked. John was flushed, his pupils blown and his usually neat hair in sweaty disarray. He looked amazing.

"Greg, lift up a bit," John gasped, letting go of the flesh he’d been holding onto so hard Greg was sure he’d have bruises.

He reluctantly pulled back, watching John lick the palm of his hand, then slamming his eyes shut when that hand wrapped around both their cocks, squeezing them together. “Oh god,” he moaned, thrusts getting harder.

Greg was close and he presumed John was, too, given how quickly his hand was whipping along their lengths. John rubbed his palm over the heads and spread pre-come, allowing his hand to move smoothly and quickly. Greg glanced down and nearly came on the spot as he watched John work them, twisting his wrist on the upward stroke.

The sight, combined with the sensation, had him upping the tempo of his thrusts, grunting slightly with the force of it. John was keening and the sound was driving Greg wild, causing him to shove his hips almost brutally against John. There was no way he could keep it up for long, so it came as something of a relief when John’s free hand suddenly flailed up to grip his shoulder hard as his head tipped back and his eyes squeezed shut. “Oh god. Greg… yes!” he cried as his orgasm hit and Greg had a moment to appreciate the fact that he’d driven John over the edge, before his own climax slammed through him.

His mind blanked and his muscles froze for several moments, then his hips stuttered as his come splashed across their stomachs and John’s still-tight hand to mingle with John’s release. He collapsed against John, utterly exhausted. They were both panting like race-horses after the Grand National, soaked with sweat and shaking slightly from the exertion and the aftershocks. Greg’s wits returned enough that he slid off of John after a few minutes, not wanting to crush him, even though John hadn’t complained.

After a few more minutes had passed, Greg started to become aware of the cooling mess between them and with a quick kiss to John’s shoulder, he shoved himself off the bed and staggered to the bathroom, wiping himself with a damp cloth, then rinsing it and returning to clean John up.

He dumped it in the bathroom sink, then once more headed to the bedroom. John was still lying where he’d left him, but he could see the tiniest hint of uncertainty had crept into his expression. “Am I staying?” John asked as soon as he crossed through the doorway.

“Yes,” Greg replied firmly, not even having to think about it. John grinned and shifted so that he could get under the covers. Luckily the quilt was quite thick, so there was no need to worry about a wet spot. Greg had just enough energy left to crawl in alongside John and kiss him softly, before he was out like a light.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Things progressed and John marvelled at how easy it was between himself and Greg. They spent a lot of time together, as he had with with Sarah when they were dating, but this time he didn’t feel guilty about running off with Sherlock at a moment’s notice. Greg understood their work and at least half the time he was right alongside them at a crime scene. Likewise, John understood when Greg got called away to a case that didn’t require Sherlock’s attention. John never felt torn between his two friends and Sherlock never invited himself along on dates like he had with Sarah.

They spent more of their nights at Greg’s house, because it afforded them more privacy, but Lestrade went to Baker Street quite frequently, too. They didn’t hide from Sherlock. There would’ve been little point anyway, but neither of them felt the need to exclude Sherlock from their new relationship.

They never talked about it, but John thought Sherlock was happy for them. Yes, he pulled faces if he caught them kissing, but John never got the feeling that it was anything beyond gentle ribbing.

He did occasionally catch an odd expression on Sherlock’s face, though. He couldn’t figure it out, but Sherlock wasn’t the easiest man to read in the first place, given his determination to hide most of his feelings and his somewhat odd expression of the ones that did slip through. John didn’t believe it was a negative thing Sherlock was feeling; in fact, it almost looked wistful. But that was ridiculous. Sherlock didn’t go in for romantic or sexual relationships; he’d made that clear the first day they met.

Half the time he wasn’t sure if he’d just imagined the look. Sherlock didn’t act any differently around them after all.

But one evening about a month into their relationship, as they lay in bed, basking in the afterglow, Greg said, “do you think Sherlock’s really ok with us being together?”

John lifted his head off Greg’s chest so he could look at him. “What makes you ask?” he enquired, frowning faintly.

“Just… sometimes I catch him looking at us with this strange expression on his face. Almost…” he drifted off and John presumed he was searching for the right word.

“Wistful,” he said quietly. Apparently he’d not imagined it after all.

“Yes, that’s it exactly. Wistful. Do you think he has feelings for one of us?” he asked hesitantly.

“I don’t know. He told me he was married to his work when I first met him.”

“But he’s never said anything to refute people’s assumptions about the two of you being together,” Greg said carefully.

They looked at each other for a moment and then Greg groaned. “God, that’s a big elephant in the room I’ve just created, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John chuckled faintly, “should we deal with it now and get it out of the way?” He felt secure in their relationship, but he didn’t want the ‘what if’ hanging over them. He was a practical man and being a doctor and a soldier had taught him that it was best to deal with things head-on.

Greg nodded, looking faintly concerned. Not enough to worry John.

He nodded back, decisively, and took a deep breath. “Ok, here goes: do you have romantic feelings for Sherlock?”

He watched as Greg gathered his thoughts, eyes unfocused. Then the gaze sharpened and met his own unflinchingly. “I have complicated feelings for Sherlock. The way we met… I think if we’d been in better places when we met, things might have gone that way between us. I can truthfully say I love him, but not romantically. We looked after each other in tough times and that formed some kind of bond that’s more than friendship, but I don’t know what to call it. Familial maybe, but that’s not quite right either.

“We’ve known each other for years now and I suppose I’m comfortable in the role of friend. Sherlock doesn’t have many of those and I feel privileged to be among the few. I think, if he’d ever made any indication of interest, I’d have accepted, but I couldn’t have had the relationship with him that I have with you. I couldn’t have lain in bed like this; I couldn’t talk to him like I do with you. I can’t imagine I’d wake up in the morning to find Sherlock snuggled round me like an octopus,” he teased, with a tentative smile.

John returned the smile, appreciating Greg’s honesty. He was about to speak, when suddenly Greg surged up and rolled them so he was lying on top of John. He placed his hands either side of John’s head and held him there while he looked deeply into his eyes, allowing John to see all his emotions and his vulnerability. “I love Sherlock,” he repeated, “but I love you more.”

John gasped slightly. It was the first time Greg had said that to him and John appreciated that he’d opened himself up like that without knowing what John’s feelings for Sherlock might be. He reached a hand up to the back of Greg’s neck and pulled him down into a deep kiss, trying to show him how he felt.

Just to make it completely clear, he broke the kiss- though he left his hand on his neck- and looked into Greg’s eyes, hoping to return the openness Greg had given him. “I’m attracted to Sherlock. I didn’t realise it at first, because I never expect to be attracted to men, even after all this time. He’s fascinating and handsome in an unconventional way. I always feel happier than is warranted when I manage to make him smile, or impress him with a deduction. I stopped minding that people thought we were together fairly early on, but continued to protest out of habit and because it was the truth.

“He’s also infuriating and I could sometimes quite cheerfully murder him. He’s inconsiderate, rude and sometimes treats me like his servant. He makes that bloody awful racket on his violin at ungodly hours of the morning, litters the flat with all sorts of unsavoury things and treats my things as his own. We have spectacular arguments on occasion, but we also share incredible highs when a case is solved, or when we’ve just run half way round London after some criminal.

“I wouldn’t, couldn’t, change him and, like you, if he’d shown any interest before we got together, I wouldn’t have said no. But I’m with you now and have no intention of leaving you. I love you, Greg Lestrade,” he finished, amazed at how easy it was to say.

Greg gave him a huge smile, but John only had a moment to appreciate it before they were once again kissing deeply. John poured his feelings into the kiss and felt Greg do the same. Their bodies were spent from their recent orgasms, but John didn’t mind, as the moment truly was about so much more; it was about the emotional connection and not the physical.

John had no idea how long they kissed for, but it eventually tailed off to soft pecks as their bodies reminded them of their exhaustion. He’d been near sleep, lost in his post-coital haze, when they’d started the conversation and that feeling slowly crept back in, contentment washing over him and leaving him relaxed and sated. A look at Greg showed him in much the same state, his eyes half-closed and his body growing heavy over John’s own.

Eventually the kisses stopped all together and Greg shifted so he was only half-lying on John. John finally moved his hand from Greg’s neck, playing with his hair briefly, then sweeping up and down his back a few times, before sleep finally pulled him under.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sherlock lay on the sofa, hands steepled at his chin, mind whirring. It was his customary thinking position, but, instead of contemplating a case or an experiment, he was considering John and Lestrade and their new relationship.

They’d been together for a month and seemed quite happy. Sherlock knew he should be glad for his friends, knew that was how ‘normal’ people reacted to their close friends finding good partners. And he was pleased for them- he’d been correct about them being a good match after all. He just had some other, more complex, feelings about the pair, too.

John and Lestrade had been perfectly civilised around him, not hiding their relationship, but not flaunting it either. Of course, Sherlock saw more than the average person regardless, and there were a dozen little tells that let him know when John and Lestrade had been sexually active, which led him to imagine them together, and that left him feeling all hot and tingly.

He was beginning to believe that Mycroft had been right, damn him.

Things had changed a few days previously. Sherlock couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever it was had made them more secure and relaxed and they also seemed to be a little more… solicitous… of him. He’d only occasionally caught them kissing before, but they seemed even more circumspect all of a sudden. Sherlock didn’t know what that meant and it frustrated him.

He heard the front door open and footsteps on the stairs leading to 221B. There was only one set and it didn’t sound like John or Lestrade, who were out for the evening watching a film (which they had invited Sherlock along to, but he’d not been interested in 130 minutes of mindlessness, surrounded by a hundred members of the great unwashed). In fact, it sounded depressingly like Mycroft.

Sure enough, his brother stepped into the room a few moments later.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he asked, making no move to get up or even look at his brother.

“Good evening to you, too, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied with his irritating joviality. “I’m here to see if you’ve come to your senses yet.”

“Oh? About what in particular?” Sherlock asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

“About Doctor Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade, of course. Don’t be difficult, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, sounding mildly exasperated.

“I see. And what am I supposed to have decided regarding them?” He hoped that if he was uncooperative enough Mycroft would leave in a huff.

Unfortunately, Mycroft knew all his tricks and refused to be put off. “This childish obtuseness is pointless, Sherlock. You know perfectly well that I want to know if you’ve accepted your feelings for them both yet.”

“Even if I had these feelings you seem to think I do, it can’t have escaped your notice that they are now together. If I had any feelings to confess, the time has now passed.” Hopefully that would put an end to it. He should have known better.

“Of course the time hasn’t passed. Sherlock, both of those men have feelings for you. Romantic feelings. You could have either one of them if you only admitted you were interested.”

“Don’t be absurd, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, finally moving from his prone position to agitatedly pace the room. “I hardly have enough friends lying around that I can afford to alienate two of them by trying to break up their new relationship. They are happy together and I find the idea of ruining that to be distasteful. I would have thought you would appreciate this little demonstration of compassion as proof of the humanity you are convinced I possess.”

“I do appreciate it, Sherlock. I’m always glad to see you giving in to your emotions like a normal person. However, in this case, you are doing so needlessly. I believe you could admit your feelings to them and it would not ruin their relationship. I think you could quite easily have both of them. Not very conventional, granted, but when do you ever do anything conventional?”

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to stare incredulously at his brother, who remained standing by the sofa, umbrella tip digging a small hole in the carpet between his feet, while both hands rested on the handle. He wore the earnest, yet somehow smug, expression that Sherlock loathed. Like he’d made some irrefutable announcement and it just remained for his inferior opponent to admit defeat. Sherlock was not one of his government lackeys, however, and was not so easily bested.

Except that he couldn’t think of a suitable riposte, because Mycroft’s suggestion had caught him unawares and he was distracted by picturing how that could work, figuring out the logistics of how three men could be together.

Unfortunately, Mycroft could read him like a book and his smug expression grew. Scowling, Sherlock resorted to hostility. “Stop being so ridiculous, Mycroft. I don’t wish to talk about this anymore and I certainly don’t wish to talk to you anymore, so get out!”

Mycroft grinned and Sherlock’s fury rose another notch, but his irritating brother simply tapped his umbrella on the floor twice, decisively, before turning for the door, still grinning. “A pleasure as always. Do think about what I suggested,” he said and was gone.

Sherlock fumed; Mycroft only gave in that easily when he believed he’d made his point and won the argument.

Sherlock flung himself into his armchair and snatched up his violin, running the bow along the strings in haphazardly way, producing a discordant, screeching noise. After a few minutes of that he started to play properly, determined to drown out Mycroft’s words and chase away the images his brain insisted on conjuring and the imagined feeling of two bodies moving against his own. Damn his brother to hell!

“Everything alright, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked, appearing suddenly; Sherlock hadn’t heard her climbing the stairs because of his music.

“Everything is fine, Mrs Hudson, why wouldn’t it be?” he managed to ask while still playing.

“Because that brother of yours just left and you started playing your violin, which usually means you’ve had a falling out. And John’s not here to referee, either.”

Sherlock smiled to himself. Mrs Hudson had the appearance of a dotty old lady, but she possessed unexpected observational skills. Granted, she was more interested in observing things she could gossip about than catch criminals with, but Sherlock could appreciate the ability nonetheless… except when she used it excessively on him.

“As you know, Mrs Hudson, I fall out with Mycroft all the time, because he insists on opening his mouth whenever he is here and he is unable to say anything I agree with,” Sherlock said acidly.

“Of course, dear,” Mrs Hudson placated, rolling her eyes. “And what did he have to say this time that was so upsetting?”

“Mrs Hudson, are you fishing for gossip?”

“Merely concerned about my tenant,” she replied, though Sherlock wasn’t sure he believed her.

“My brother came to talk about John and Inspector Lestrade,” he started.

“Oh? What about them? They’ve been spending a lot of time together recently, I notice. Have you and John hit a rough patch? You didn’t break up did you? I’m sure the inspector’s just a rebound and you can fix things with John if you try.”

Sherlock scowled at the woman. “Mrs Hudson, why do you insist on believing that John and I are together? We are not and we have never been in a romantic relationship. And anyway, why would you assume that _I_ was the one in the wrong if we _had_ broken up?”

“Are you sure you aren’t together, Sherlock dear?” Mrs Hudson asked coyly.

“Dear god, woman! Of course I’m sure. I think I would have noticed being in a relationship with John. I certainly would have had something to say about his relationship with Sarah and his relationship with Lestrade were that the case. As I did not object to either instance, it seems obvious that I don’t care who John sees,” Sherlock replied, leaping from his chair in exasperation and doing his utmost to believe the words he had spoken.

“Now, Sherlock, don’t get all het up. Sit down and tell me what Mycroft said,” Mrs Hudson ordered, sitting on the sofa and patting the cushion next to her invitingly.

Sherlock sighed and flung his hands in the air, before clenching them in his hair briefly. He thought about making her leave, or leaving himself, but, in truth, Mrs Hudson had proven herself to be a good listener over the years and had provided sound advice on several occasions. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to tell her what Mycroft had said.

He sat next to his landlady, though he didn’t look at her, focusing instead on the fireplace opposite. “Mycroft suggested that I have feelings for both John and Lestrade. He’s been saying that for as long as I’ve known both men. I pointed out that even if it was true and I did have these supposed feelings, my opportunity to act had passed now that they are engaged in their own relationship. Mycroft suggested that, in fact, I have not missed my opportunity at all.”

“He wants you to split them up?” Mrs Hudson asked, aghast at the idea. Sherlock took some comfort in the fact that she had reached the same conclusion he had concerning Mycroft’s suggestion.

“On the contrary, Mrs Hudson, he suggested I join them.”

Mrs Hudson made a small squeaking noise in surprise and Sherlock felt justified in his decision to disregard Mycroft’s suggestion… for all of two seconds, before a sly smile spread over the face of the supposedly innocent old lady sitting beside him.

“A threesome? How delightfully kinky! Who knew Mycroft would think of that?”

Both eyebrows as high as he could get them, Sherlock said, “Mrs Hudson, I think you’ve failed to grasp the utter absurdity of Mycroft’s suggestion! Obviously old age has left you as insane as my brother!" Maybe if he insulted her she would leave and take her nonsense with her... before he was tempted. It was easy to dismiss Mycroft’s ideas by dint of their origin, but much as he would like to dismiss Mrs Hudson as easily, he found he couldn’t. Annoyed with himself he snapped, "Go away and take your insanity with you, before I get infected as well."

It wasn’t one of his better efforts, which, to his mind, was proof that a relationship would never work: too much of his brain was taken up by John and Lestrade and it was making him stupid.

Sherlock wished he could say he was surprised that, in the face of his less than stellar effort, Mrs Hudson simply raised an amused eyebrow and said, "Yes, dear. Tea?"

Sherlock stared at her for a few seconds, then gave up. “Fine, yes. Tea."

Mrs Hudson took herself off to the kitchen, muttering her usual refrain of, "Just this once; I’m not your housekeeper."

Sherlock ignored her, flinging himself down on the newly vacant sofa with his back to the room. Maybe if he ignored the insufferable woman she would go away... After she brought him his tea, of course.

~*~

Sherlock tried to keep his mind off the possibilities by throwing himself into work over the next day or two, even though the only ones that came his way were the trivial little things on his website, which he normally dismissed. He solved them in moments, turning a blind eye to the worried looks John sent his way.

And then Moriarty arrived and it was glorious.

 _Finally_ he had found someone whose brain matched his own, someone who he couldn’t identify almost as soon as he stepped into the crime scene. He knew that John and Lestrade were a bit annoyed at his glee, but it wouldn’t do to tell them that he wasn’t happy because innocent people were having bombs strapped to them, but because it stopped him thinking about them together. They’d likely be unhappy with him either way and at least being silent meant he didn’t reveal any of his annoying feelings.

Besides, he did enjoy the challenge and the clarity of mind it brought. Until it didn’t. Until he sent John off for a nice, quiet, _safe_ evening with Lestrade and took himself off to the swimming baths where he’d agreed to meet Moriarty face-to-face for the first time. His clarity deserted him as soon as John stepped out of a changing cubicle.

First there was a moment of confused betrayal; ‘surely John isn’t-?’ He didn’t even finish the thought. _Of course_ John wasn’t Moriarty! He was intelligent, yes, but Sherlock had seen nothing to even hint at the kind of devious cleverness Moriarty had shown. What’s more, there was fear in John’s eyes, even if the rest of him showed nothing but calm.

Then Molly’s new, gay boyfriend, Jim, revealed himself to be Moriarty and the red laser sights appeared all over John’s torso and Sherlock was overcome by the rush of too many feelings all at once. There was anger at Moriarty for taking John, fear for John’s life, annoyance at himself for letting Moriarty slip through his fingers that first time they met and always in the back of his mind, the thrill of the chase and of finding the answers.

It was too much for Sherlock to process- he wasn’t used to dealing with that level of emotion- so things were a bit of a blur as Moriarty talked about burning his heart out and then left. He rushed over and pulled the bomb vest from John as quickly as possible. John made some quip about people talking and Sherlock managed to make a reply as he paced along the poolside, clutching John’s gun in a death grip.

“Give me that before you shoot someone,” John instructed and Sherlock handed the weapon over with no protest.

He had more important concerns. “Are you alright? Where’s Lestrade?” he asked, running his eyes over John’s body. John’s hands were steady, though his shoulders were hunched as reaction started to set in. He didn’t appear hurt, though, so Sherlock relaxed a little.

“I’m fine; nothing a stiff drink won’t cure. I never made it to Greg’s house. Do you have your phone? Moriarty took mine and Greg must be worried sick by now.”

“Looking for this, boys?” As if summoned, Moriarty reappeared, dragging a bound and bloodied Lestrade with him. Sherlock’s heart rate spiked up again and John actually growled; when Sherlock spared him a quick glance he saw fury blazing in his friend’s eyes.

“I’m sorry he’s a bit bruised, but my boys wanted some fun and I had to leave Doctor Watson there in one piece, because I wanted to see that moment where you believed he was really me, so I let them have some fun with PC Plod here.

“I have to say, Sherlock, I was surprised to find you caught up in the sort of petty relationship woes that lesser men than us find commonplace. I thought you would be above lusting after your two best friends. Though I have to say that it was entertaining watching you sulk about their relationship.

“But I digress. I said I was going to burn your heart out, Sherlock, and the time for that is now. Quite simply, you get to pick which of these two gets to live.” The red dots started to reappear, gathering on John and Lestrade’s bodies.

“It’s all up to-“

A gunshot rang out, making Sherlock jump. Moriarty stopped talking abruptly and looked momentarily startled before crumpling to the floor. It took a second or two for Sherlock to comprehend what had happened; then he turned to see John, arm outstretched and gun gripped in a steady hand.

It was an arresting sight, but Sherlock’s feet were already moving to Lestrade, who looked about as shell-shocked as Sherlock felt. He started untying the rope round Lestrade’s wrists as John moved to check Moriarty. Evidently the shot was true, because John didn’t linger over the body, but instead moved to look Lestrade over.

“How are you doing?” John asked, and Sherlock could see soldier-mode giving way to doctor-mode as John assessed the split lip and bruised eye.

“I’m fine, John,” Lestrade said and Sherlock thought he did look remarkably calm. He supposed they didn’t make just anyone into a detective inspector; there had to be some degree of mental fortitude to withstand some of the things policemen dealt with every day.

“How are you doing, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked gently and Sherlock realised that it was Lestrade’s ‘victim’ voice, the soft tone he used to calm victims who looked to be on the brink of hysteria. Why was he speaking that way to Sherlock, though? A quick self-assessment showed that he was shaking very slightly, but surely that was just down to the adrenaline wearing off?

“I’m fine, Lestrade,” he managed. He was not going to have some sort of emotional breakdown. He was Sherlock Holmes, sociopath. In an attempt to deflect the attention from himself, he said, “That was risky. How did you know the snipers wouldn’t shoot one or all of us even with Moriarty down?”

“Because, unlike you, Doctor Watson was paying attention,” came Mycroft’s reproachful voice from behind him.

Sherlock spun round to see his brother walking towards them and a SWAT team leading several handcuffed men away. Another man walked past them and retrieved the bomb vest, quickly clipping a few wires before taking it away.

Sherlock looked to John for an explanation and John said, “One of the laser sights on Greg’s body started spelling out ‘Mycroft’ in Morse code.”

And Sherlock had missed it. ‘This, _this_ , is why you don’t let yourself get emotionally attached!’ he berated himself harshly.

“Jesus Christ, John, you’ve just shot a man. Please tell me you’ve got a permit for that thing?” Lestrade suddenly exclaimed.

Sherlock realised he had a point. John was former military, but there was no way round the fact he was technically a civilian who had just fired an illegal weapon and killed a man. He’d done it before, of course, when he first met Sherlock, but there had been no witnesses. Whereas a room full of mercenaries had witnessed John gun down their unarmed boss and Sherlock didn’t doubt that plenty of them would point the finger at John to try to save themselves a bit of jail time.

“Rest assured, Inspector, John is fully licensed to carry that gun,” Mycroft said.

Judging by John’s look of surprise, it was news to him. Sherlock gave his brother a grudging smile of thanks. Mycroft did occasionally have his uses it seemed, riding to the rescue twice in one night.

Lestrade looked sceptical, but evidently decided to let it go, for awhile at least.

“Excellent,” Mycroft said, smiling his most officious smile, the one that usually made Sherlock want to wipe it off with his fist. He was willing to let things slide for the moment however, given Mycroft’s actions. “Now, the police are on their way, so I suggest you three go home and let me handle things here. I’ll see you out.”

It seemed a good plan and, as one, they all moved towards the exit. John and Lestrade both thanked Mycroft.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft brushed their thanks aside. “I couldn’t possibly allow Moriarty to complete his plan.”

They reached the door and Sherlock watched as Lestrade grabbed the handle. Just as he was about to push the door open, Mycroft said quietly, “Oh, John, Greg, kindly take my idiot brother to bed, before he talks himself out of it again.”

As John and Lestrade sputtered in surprise, Sherlock shot Mycroft a death glare. The truce he’d been willing to call, since Mycroft saved the day, died a sudden death.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

One of Mycroft’s people drove them to Baker Street. The trip was almost completely silent as they all reflected on what had just happened.

Initially, John had herded Greg and Sherlock into the car ahead of him and he’d then tried to look at Greg’s wounds, but Greg had caught his hand and said, “I’m fine, John.” It wasn’t even much of a lie. Moriarty had sent three men to snatch him and they’d got the drop on him by knocking at his front door. Greg had assumed it was John and had opened the door without checking- something he wouldn’t do again in a hurry- and one of the goons had delivered a punch to the gut that had Greg falling to his knees and gasping long enough for the other two men to swarm in and secure his hands and feet. He’d been knocked out with a punch to the temple, but he’d woken in the car, so he wasn’t too worried about head injuries. All the rest- the split lip and bruised eye- were mostly done for visual effect, rather than to inflict lasting damage.

John had looked at him for a moment and then sat back and turned to look out of the window. Greg considered whether he should be concerned at how easily John gave in. He wondered what was going through his partner’s mind as he stared out at the passing scenery. Was he angry? Was he sad at having ended a man’s life? Was he worried about the possible consequences of shooting Moriarty? Was he lost somewhere in the memories of being in a war zone, where bombs and shootings were a way of life? There was no way to tell from John’s closed expression.

Sighing, he turned his attention to Sherlock, who sat on the seat opposite. The man looked a little wild round the eyes, but it wasn’t anything like he’d looked when he was using, so Greg wasn’t too worried. He’d seen a little of the action at the pool, had seen Sherlock pacing and pulling his hair, and suspected that the man was just trying to process a whole load of unaccustomed feelings. He’d be fine once he could stretch out on his ratty old thinking sofa for awhile.

Satisfied that neither of his companions needed any input from him at that moment, Greg turned his attention to his own whirling thoughts. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and his thoughts were finally starting to slow down enough that he could at least recognise them, even if he wasn’t yet capable of dealing with them. He didn’t know how to cope with the fact that his significant other had just had a bomb strapped to him and had then killed an unarmed man. Greg wasn’t sorry that Moriarty was dead, not after what he’d done to them and to the other innocents he’d used in his game with Sherlock. He was having a little bit of trouble reconciling his mild-mannered doctor with the soldier he’d seen a glimpse of back at the pool, but it did give him a little thrill to think he was that important to John.

He wondered what it said about himself that his first thought hadn’t been to arrest John for murder and possession of an illegal firearm. He was a relatively high-ranking member of the police force, after all. But he knew he had no intention of turning John in and strange though it was, he trusted Mycroft to sort things out with regard to John’s gun.

And of course, he couldn’t forget Mycroft’s parting words. A shot at his brother in their ongoing war of words, or was it really something Sherlock wanted?

His thoughts were interrupted by the car pulling up to the kerb and the driver opening the door for them. He trailed Sherlock and John up the stairs and then they all stood in the living room silently staring at each other.

Being home seemed to snap John out of whatever place his thoughts had been, because he suddenly covered the three steps needed to bring him face-to-face with Greg and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug that Greg quickly returned. He buried his face in John’s hair and just held on for a moment. He could feel fine tremors running through John and realised that the adrenaline must be wearing off for him, too. He kissed John’s temple and rubbed a comforting hand up and down his back, finding that comforting John eased his own nerves.

Greg heard shuffling and lifted his face to look at Sherlock over John’s shoulder. The man still looked quite wild and it hit Greg just how young he was. It was easy to forget when Sherlock was breezing confidently round a crime scene, but he wasn’t even thirty yet.

He held an arm out in invitation. Mycroft’s parting shot had given him something to think about, but he didn’t know how much truth there had been in the suggestion. Had Sherlock really been thinking about him and John? Even if he had, would he be willing to let his guard down enough?

Sherlock eyed his arm as if it was a poisonous snake and Greg thought that pretty much answered that, but then Sherlock surprised him by slowly moving to stand beside them, the wild look fading to something half-curious and half-nervous.

John hadn’t raised his head from Greg’s shoulder, but he’d apparently been paying attention, because while Sherlock was watching Greg, John reached out and pulled him against them. Sherlock gave an unmanly squeak of surprise and looked for a moment like he might move away again, but Greg wrapped him up in his outstretched arm and held him there.

Sherlock stood frozen for a few moments. Greg knew he didn’t particularly like people touching him, but he hoped those rules would be relaxed for John and himself. Eventually Sherlock did relax into the contact and even wrapped his arms loosely round them.

After a few moments, John pulled back and said with a serious expression, “Will you let me check your injuries now?”

Greg gave in, knowing John wouldn’t rest until he’d satisfied himself that he was fine. So he sat on the sofa and waited while John fetched the first aid kit and some warm water and a cloth. There really wasn’t much John could do- it was too late for ice to make any difference to his bruised eye, but he did dab the dried blood from his split lip and apply a little antiseptic cream.

“Were you hurt anywhere else?” he asked.

He was about to say no when Sherlock spoke up with the first thing he’d said since they’d left the swimming pool. “He winced when he sat down. I suspect he was punched in the stomach at some point.”

Greg shot him a half-hearted glare, which Sherlock simply smirked at. He seemed to be getting his equilibrium back.

John gave him a look and Greg sighed, then removed his coat, jumper and t-shirt. There was a bruise forming on his abdomen, but it wasn’t a particularly bad one. Still, John dropped to his knees to examine the area, gently palpating to check for internal injuries, scowling lightly as he did so.

The sight of John on his knees, the feel of his hands on his skin and being the focus of that concentration combined to get Greg’s adrenaline flowing once more. He sucked in a breath and John looked up with concern, probably thinking he’d found a sore spot.

Their eyes caught and Greg watched as John’s pupils dilated and the concern melted into arousal. He caught John by the lapels of his jacket and hauled him closer for a searing kiss. The split in his lip stung, but not enough to put him off deepening the kiss.

There was a breathy gasp, but it didn’t sound like John. Greg pulled back and opened eyes he didn’t remember closing to look over at Sherlock, who was watching them with rapt attention. He looked back down at John with a raised eyebrow and got a quick nod in return. He stood and walked towards Sherlock, a task made slightly more difficult thanks to the fact that he was already half-hard just from the kiss. He stood in front of Sherlock and assessed him- blown pupils, quickened breathing and flushed skin. It looked like Mycroft had been right after all.

He doubted Sherlock would make the first move. He didn’t think he was a virgin- there was no way someone so curious and driven to know _everything_ hadn’t at least experimented once or twice- but he also knew that Sherlock spent most of his time avoiding contact with the rest of humanity and was, putting it mildly, a little socially inept.

So Greg took it upon himself to get things moving, burying his fingers into the hair at the back of Sherlock’s neck and tugging him into a gentle kiss. He didn’t hesitate, or give Sherlock time to back away, but he didn’t push either, just moved his lips on Sherlock’s in a coaxing way.

He kept his eyes open, assessing Sherlock’s reaction. His eyes were comically wide and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Greg took pity on the other man and pulled back slightly, though he kept his grip on his neck.

Sherlock blinked rapidly and licked his lips, then apparently reached a decision; he pulled Greg back against him with hands on his hips and proceeded to kiss him like his life depended on it.

Greg moaned at the sensation. It wasn’t particularly skilled, but it was definitely enthusiastic. He felt hands on his back and realised John had joined them. He knew he should step back and let John and Sherlock get acquainted, but he was enjoying himself too much and didn’t think John would begrudge him a moment of selfishness. He let Sherlock do as he wanted for a few minutes, then started to take control of the kiss, showing Sherlock how it was done and generally enjoying exploring the other man’s mouth.

John was far from idle. He kissed Greg’s shoulder blades and ran his hands over his back, gently dragging his fingernails down to the waist of his trousers. Greg shivered at the sensation, then moaned as those hands moved round to his chest and started playing with his nipples. John stepped in tight against his back and Greg could feel his erection pressing against him. He rocked his hips back slightly and smiled at the moan it got him.

John retaliated by pulling one nipple hard while letting go of the other, only to return moments later with Sherlock’s hand gripped in his own.

Sherlock was a quick study. He’d picked up the kissing and it didn’t take him long to start driving Greg out of his mind with those long fingers pulling and twisting at his nipples.

Once Sherlock had taken over the nipple-torture, John’s hands slid down his ribs, firm enough not to tickle, then moved to the front of his trousers. He gave Greg’s erection a quick squeeze, then dropped to the floor to remove his shoes and socks. He stood slowly, dragging his hands up the front of Greg’s legs until he once again reached the waist of his trousers. In short order, the belt, button and zip were all undone and Greg’s trousers slipped to the floor. The next thing he knew, John’s hands were pushing inside his boxers. One started rolling his balls, while the other took hold of his cock and started moving slowly, teasingly, up and down.

Greg moaned loudly and thrust into the hands. He had to pull away from Sherlock’s mouth, because he needed to breathe. He had to chuckle at the way Sherlock’s eyes slid down to watch what John was doing.

He caught his breath enough to say, “Not that I mind too much, but I seem to be the only one undressed.”

John chuckled and stepped away. Greg immediately missed the hands that had been so expertly playing with his cock. But he couldn’t complain too much when John started shedding his clothes. John didn’t stop at his boxers, but dropped them with his trousers and left himself completely naked.

Greg stepped towards him, wanting to get his own back for the teasing touches, but Sherlock got there first. “We should kiss, John. I need a larger data set to work from.”

It should have sounded stupid. It was a pretty geeky thing to say and not at all romantic. But it was Sherlock and he said weird stuff all the time, so Greg just thought it sounded like a good idea. Evidently John did, too, because he didn’t even bother to reply, just pulled Sherlock down to him.

Greg enjoyed the show for a few moments, then decided it would be even better if Sherlock was naked, too. He moved to stand behind Sherlock and pulled the jacket from his shoulders, then reached round to unbutton his shirt. Sherlock helped by taking his hands off John long enough for Greg to pull the sleeves off them. He also toed off his shoes, but left Greg to deal with his trousers, socks and briefs.

Greg stood back and admired the body he’d revealed. Sherlock was long and lean, lightly muscled, a combination of running all over the place and eating poorly no doubt. He had little body hair and his erection was just as long and lean as the rest of him. Realising that he was suddenly the one overdressed, Greg removed his own boxers and they were finally all three completely naked.

He stepped back into Sherlock’s body, relishing the feel of skin on skin, reaching around with one arm to touch John as well. He licked over the tempting expanse of smooth skin in front of him and discovered that Sherlock made an interesting gasping sound when he put pressure on the juncture of neck and left shoulder, but that it didn’t work for the other side. He went back to the left side and went to town, licking and sucking, even biting lightly, which got an honest-to-god whimper out him.

Sherlock got bolder, running his fingers down the crack of John’s arse and pulling experimentally on his cock, before repeating it all on Greg. He had to learn how to get the best responses from them, but John and Greg already knew how to get each other going and they started to teach Sherlock what he needed to know.

When John’s legs almost gave out when Greg touched his balls just right, Greg said, “We should take this to a bed before someone gets hurt.”

“Mine’s nearest,” Sherlock said. Greg nodded and Sherlock led the way to his room.

Once in the room John and Sherlock took him by surprise and tripped him onto the bed, then proceeded to tag-team him. John took his mouth in a bruising kiss, while Sherlock licked and sucked on his nipples. Then Sherlock took over the kissing, adding a bit of earlobe-sucking for good measure, while John headed south and swallowed his cock down.

Greg yelled and tried to keep from thrusting into the soft heat. Without even realising it, he’d got a grip of both men’s hair and he had to try not to pull that, too. Not that John minded a bit of hair-pulling once they really got into things.

Sherlock pulled away slightly to watch John at work. Suddenly he pounced, rolling John off of Greg’s cock. Greg was about to protest, but Sherlock engulfed John’s cock with his mouth and Greg suddenly forgot what he’d been going to complain about. God that was hot. The moan John gave seemed to confirm it.

Sherlock pulled off with a wet pop, coughing a bit. Greg realised he must have tried to take too much of John into his mouth. John groaned at the loss, but Sherlock looked up at Greg and said, “I want you inside me.”

Both Greg and John moaned at that thought. There was no way Greg would turn down the offer, but he had to ask, “have you done that before?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked.

“Only so I know how much preparation you’ll need,” he assured.

Sherlock nodded. “I did it once in college. There’s lube in that drawer, but no condoms. We don’t need them, though. I know you two stopped using them last Tuesday and I’ve not had sex since college, so I’m not infected with anything.”

It was typically unromantic and almost clinical, but Greg was not about to complain. The thought of being inside Sherlock without any barrier was almost enough to make him come then and there. He didn’t want to know how Sherlock could possibly know he and John had stopped using condoms.

Greg dug out the lube and turned back to find Sherlock had gone back to sucking on John. As with the kissing, it was amateurish but enthusiastic and he seemed to be getting better at it quickly if the changing tone of John’s noises was anything to go by.

Greg turned his attention to preparing Sherlock, drizzling some of the lube onto his fingers and running a finger round Sherlock’s hole. He didn’t push straight inside, but he did put pressure on the ring of muscle. He wanted to give Sherlock time to get used to the sensation.

He needn’t have bothered; as soon as he pressed down, Sherlock shoved his arse backwards, causing Greg’s finger to push inside. Greg swore in surprise and also in response to the hot tightness round his finger. He held still, waiting to see if Sherlock had hurt himself with that stupid move, but Sherlock just pulled his mouth off John again and said, somewhat acerbically, “today, Lestrade.”

“Pushy little brat,” Greg muttered, getting a grin from Sherlock and a huff of laughter from John. After that, Greg wasted no time, getting up to three fingers as quickly as he dared, hitting Sherlock’s prostate randomly and driving breathy moans from him. Those moans got a little louder once John pushed Sherlock off his cock so he wouldn’t come too soon.

Finally Sherlock said, “Enough, come on,” and Greg pulled his fingers free with one last rub against Sherlock’s prostate.

“How do you want to do this?” he asked.

Sherlock tilted his head in thought and then grinned a truly wicked grin. “Lie on your back, Lestrade.”

“We’re about to have sex; you can call me Greg,” he muttered, but arranged himself as requested. He was rewarded a moment later by Sherlock carefully lowering himself down onto his cock. Greg grabbed Sherlock’s hips, giving him a bit of support. The hot, tight feeling was delicious and he had to concentrate to keep from thrusting hard, but he’d seen the wince as Sherlock settled. There really was no way for it not to hurt the first time and, as far as his body was concerned, it was Sherlock’s first time.

Most of Greg’s attention was focused on his cock, but he looked over when he saw John sit up to watch. It was a pretty breathtaking sight watching John slowly jacking himself as he stared unblinkingly at the place where Greg’s cock disappeared into Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock gave a few careful movements. “You ok?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shifted again and nodded. Then he started moving more forcefully, building gradually until he was slamming down onto Greg’s erection. Greg gave into his body’s demands and started slamming his hips up into Sherlock’s downwards thrusts, while John apparently lost interest in his own dick and took hold of Sherlock’s instead, using his other hand to play with Greg’s nipples.

Sherlock was still fairly quiet, moaning breathily, but John and Greg had got louder and the air was filled with moans, groans and cries of yes, more, harder, oh god!

Suddenly Sherlock froze and Greg thought that was it, that he was going over the edge into orgasm, but nothing happened except for him reaching down to still John’s hand.

“I’ve had an idea,” he panted. He twisted to reach the lube, dragging a groan from himself and Greg at the new angle the move created. He handed the lube to John and gasped, “In me as well.”

“Christ,” Greg groaned. The thought alone was enough to send him closer to the edge. He forced himself to hold on. There was no way he was going to derail that plan.

But John looked torn. “Are you sure, Sherlock? It’s a lot of strain and not really suitable for a first time.”

Sherlock reached out and pulled John into a kiss. “John, I want this. What I don’t want is Doctor Watson in bed with us. I’ll tell you if it hurts, but I know I can handle it.”

John stared at him for a few moments more, arousal and worry warring on his face. He looked at Greg and he nodded. He knew John was right and that it would stretch Sherlock a lot, maybe too much, but the thought was too hot to deny and Sherlock was perfectly capable of telling them to stop if it got too much. He trusted John to be careful and so did Sherlock. It came down to whether John trusted himself. After a moment, he got his answer- John opened the cap on the lube and squeezed some out.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he said, before Greg felt the indescribable sensation of John’s finger pushing in alongside his cock, the coolness of the lube contrasting with the furnace heat of Sherlock’s body. He kept an eye on Sherlock, watching him gasp, feeling the tightening of the hands on his shoulders. But Sherlock didn’t say anything and eventually John added a second finger.

The prep was slow and torturous. Greg had to hold himself still while John worked. Sweat was pouring off all three of them and Sherlock was panting. John kept up a steady litany of softly spoken encouragement.

As the third finger went in, Sherlock cried out. Greg felt John freeze, but Sherlock shook his head and gasped, “keep going.” John did as he was told. Greg could feel Sherlock’s arms shaking, trying to hold himself upright despite the onslaught of sensation, so he coaxed him down to rest on his chest and gently kissed him, sweeping sweaty hair off his forehead.

The change in angle loosened things up a little more and allowed John to move freely in and out. Greg didn’t know how much longer he could hold out; he was shaking almost as much as Sherlock was and the kiss had degenerated into pretty much breathing into each other’s open mouths.

“Now,” Sherlock murmured.

John was evidently too far gone to ask again if Sherlock was sure. He simply pulled his fingers out and moved so he could position his cock at Sherlock’s hole. Greg could feel the head against the part of his shaft that was outside Sherlock’s body and it was an incredible sensation. But it paled into insignificance once John slowly pushed inside. All three of them moaned, but Sherlock’s sounded a little pained.

John held still, but Greg could see his face over Sherlock’s shoulder and he could tell it was costing John a lot to keep from moving.

Finally Sherlock said, “ok,” and John carefully started moving in and out. Greg didn’t dare move in case he hurt Sherlock, but he did run his hand down from Sherlock’s shoulder to the tight skin wrapped around himself and John, feeling the way Sherlock’s body twitched and tightened as John moved in and out. He pressed and rubbed the skin, knowing from his own experience that it was a sensitive area. Sure enough, Sherlock moaned loudly.

There was no way they could last long. They were already high on adrenaline from the pool and they’d taken a long time to get where they were. They were all dripping sweat, panting like they were about to have heart attacks and trembling from the muscle fatigue that was fast catching up.

John’s thrusts got bolder as Sherlock relaxed. He was still being careful, but he was moving harder. He gave a particularly sharp thrust and that was it, Sherlock’s body locked up tight, squeezing Greg and John’s cocks together in a vice-like grip. He cried out, his loudest yet, and Greg felt the warmth of his come against his belly and felt the rhythmic pulsing of the muscles surrounding his cock.

That was all he needed to send him over the edge and he screamed out his own climax, dimly aware of John’s muttered curse as he, too, came. The feeling of their hot come mingling together forced another weak pulse from Greg’s cock. “Jesus Christ!” he gasped weakly.

The three of them lay in a gasping heap. Sherlock was boneless against his chest and Greg wondered whether he’d passed out, but guessed not when there was a muttered from the vicinity of his collar bone when John carefully pulled out.

Greg had no idea how John found the wherewithal to get up, help Sherlock off of Greg’s softening cock and then find something to wipe them all down with. It was an impressive feat seeing as Greg could hardly keep his eyes open, let alone move.

Sherlock settled against Greg’s side, head on his shoulder, and John spooned up behind Sherlock, keeping him in the middle. Greg managed to reach his arm across to John’s hip and then sleep claimed him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

John woke when he felt the bed shifting as Sherlock tried to extract himself from the middle. As Sherlock climbed over him, John smiled and pulled him down into a quick good morning kiss. He frowned slightly when Sherlock’s response was a little stiff. "You ok?" he asked.

"I’m fine," Sherlock replied. "I just need to relieve myself."

"Righto," John said, dropping his loose hold on Sherlock’s shoulder. As soon as he let go, Sherlock slid the rest of the way out of the bed and vanished out the door, taking his dressing gown off its hook on the way out. John lay back, frown still in place. He had a niggling feeling; yes, needing the loo was a plausible reason to leave the bed, but he didn’t think it was Sherlock’s _only_ reason.

He heard the toilet flush and scoffed at himself for worrying. Then he heard the shower turn on, and ok, that made sense too- being covered in dried sweat, semen and lube wasn’t the most comfortable sensation. He also reasoned that Sherlock was probably a bit sore. The doctor in him knew that double penetration was a bit much for an all-but-virgin body. He’d prepped Sherlock well, but there was no way to completely avoid the pain from overly stretched muscles.

He glanced across to Greg, but wasn’t surprised to find him dead to the world. John had discovered that, thanks to his years as a cop, Greg woke up instantly if the phone rang or the alarm clock went off, but otherwise it took some serious effort. John had managed to rouse him with a blow job once or twice, but he usually left him to wake on his own. His niggling feeling wasn’t bad enough to warrant trying to get Greg to wake up before he was ready.

The shower went on for long enough that John began to worry that there wouldn’t be enough hot water left for him and Greg, even if they showered together. But after about half an hour, he heard the water stop and the old pipes give their customary rattle. He waited for Sherlock to return to bed, but when that didn’t happen he got up and ferreted out some boxers and a t-shirt from Sherlock’s drawers. If Sherlock was freaking out, he didn’t want to risk making it worse by heading out of the bedroom naked, even if it was only for long enough to dig his own clothes out of the pile they’d left on the living room floor the night before.

He found Sherlock stretched out on the sofa in his usual thinking pose and tried not to read too much into that. He knew Sherlock was struck by _thoughts_ at all times of day or night. Deciding to start out carefully, he said, “did you leave enough hot water for the rest of us?”

“There should still be sufficient for you and Lestrade to have quick showers, or maybe a longer one if you both go in together.”

“You know, you can probably call him Greg now. It’s a bit weird to keep calling him Lestrade now you’ve slept with him, don’t you think?” John teased.

Sherlock’s whole body tensed and his mouth pursed slightly, “I don’t… I’m not…” He cut himself off, visibly frustrated and John knew his suspicion had been right. There was something going on in Sherlock’s head that needed to be dealt with.

“What’s up, Sherlock?” he asked, taking a seat on the coffee table so he could see Sherlock clearly without standing over him.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sherlock protested, but he sat up and crossed his arms, which showed John just how tense he really was- normally Sherlock could lie in the thinking pose for hours on end. He only got up when he needed to pace off a particularly intense idea. John took what comfort he could from the fact that Sherlock had only sat up and hadn’t flung himself completely from the settee into frustrated pacing.

“Clearly something _is_ wrong, Sherlock, or you would’ve come back to bed, or at least, you wouldn’t have tensed up when I kissed you, or when I mentioned having slept with Greg,” John replied reasonably.

Sherlock’s brow raised and his voice showed his surprised approval. “Very good, John, you’re getting better at reading body language.”

Normally John would preen a little at the compliment, but he wasn’t going to be distracted this time. It was too important to get to the bottom of things and fix them. Now that he’d got Sherlock, he didn’t want to lose him. “Come on, Sherlock, don’t avoid the question. What’s bothering you? Did we hurt you? Did we take things too fast? Do you regret what we did?”

He held his breath. That last question was the big one, the one that could kill any chance of a three-way relationship before it even really got started.

Sherlock took a long time to answer, not doing John’s nerves any good at all. Sherlock gave in to the urge to pace that John had spotted before. Trying to convince himself it wasn’t a bad sign, John stood and turned so he could keep Sherlock in sight. He kept the coffee table between them, giving the younger man the space he seemed to need.

His heart sank more and more the longer his question went unanswered, but he wouldn’t push. His heart lifted a bit when Sherlock finally admitted, "no, I don’t regret it," but he guessed that wasn’t all of it.

"But?" he said.

Sherlock stopped by the fireplace, back to John, who braced himself. "But I didn’t... It was... I can’t..." He spun round to stare at John from across the room. His anguished expression tore at John and his mind finished those stuttered half-sentences: 'I didn’t like it, it was painful, I can’t do it again.'

He opened his mouth, but Sherlock spoke before he could. "Words fail me. _Me!_ " he exclaimed, with a wild gesture.

"Sherlock," John said, as he stepped round the table. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but he was saved from having to say anything by the arrival of a sleep-mussed, completely naked Lestrade. He ambled unselfconsciously into the room and headed straight for Sherlock, who was nearest, pulling him into a sound kiss.

God, they looked hot.

He watched Sherlock stiffen against Greg’s body before melting into the kiss. It went on for long enough that John thought Greg might just have solved the issue, but then Sherlock tensed again and pushed away. "I have to think," he said, before vanishing into his room and shutting the door behind him.

“What was that all about?” Greg asked.

Instead of answering, John crossed the room, wrapped his arms around Greg and buried his face in his shoulder.

“John?” Greg said, starting to sound a little worried as he wrapped his arms round John in return.

John pulled back so he could look at Greg. “I think last night might have been a one-off,” he said sadly.

Before Greg could reply, Sherlock reappeared, fully dressed. He froze in the doorway, looking at John and Greg’s embrace with a strange mix of emotions on his face. John hoped it wasn’t wishful thinking when he spotted a flash of appreciation and longing in those pale eyes.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“I have to think. Just…stay here, don’t go anywhere. I won’t be long…” Sherlock said, striding for the door. He was down the stairs and out on the street before John had really processed he’d gone.

Greg sighed, pressed a quick kiss to John’s temple and said, “I’ll put some clothes on then. I refuse to get dumped in the nude.” John chuckled, though he knew it was weak, then stepped back and released Greg.

Greg headed up to John’s room. They’d started leaving a few essentials, such as toiletries and underwear, at each other’s homes a few weeks ago, so there were clean boxers in his dresser.

While he waited for Greg to dress, John picked up the discarded clothes that were strewn all over the floor. He dumped them all in the laundry basket- there was blood on Greg’s shirt, gun shot residue on his own and they all stank of chlorine and sweat from fear and adrenalin.

He heard the shower turn on, but the idea of joining Greg didn’t have the same appeal it'd had earlier. The sound did make him think though- they hadn’t quite reached the stage of leaving full sets of clothes at each others’ places, so Greg didn’t have any trousers or tops at Baker Street. One of John’s t-shirts would fit no problem, but his trousers would be far too short and he thought Sherlock’s would probably be too narrow-waisted, so he fished Greg’s jeans back out of the laundry.

He checked them for blood, but didn’t spot any, so he took them up to his room. The water shut off as he set the jeans on the bed.

"Hey. I saved you a bit of hot water," Greg said, wrapping his arms around John from behind.

John leant back against him, resting his hands on Greg’s arms, and said, “Thanks. Help youself to a t-shirt, but I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with yesterday’s jeans, as you’ve not got any trousers here and I don’t think mine or Sherlock’s will fit.”

"Well, we’ll just have to start leaving proper clothes at each other’s places then, won’t we?" Greg said with a kiss to the back of John’s neck.

John turned in Greg’s embrace and looped his arms round his waist. He gave Greg a small smile and a quick kiss. "We will," he agreed. But his smile faded quickly and he rested his forehead on Greg’s shoulder with a sigh.

“Hey,” Greg said, reaching one hand up to coax John’s head away from his shoulder, “I know it’s going to hurt if Sherlock decides he’s not interested, but whatever the outcome, we’ve still got each other. Having one night with Sherlock in the mix hasn’t changed my feelings for you and it won’t make me feel like sex between the two of us is lacking something. Okay?”

John grinned and pulled Greg into a deep kiss, reaffirming their connection. “That’s how I feel, too. I love you, Greg, and if Sherlock joins or he doesn’t, I will carry on loving you just as much. It just feels strange to love you so much, yet also long for Sherlock to come back and say he wants to join us, almost like I’m betraying you somehow.”

“John-“ Greg started, looking alarmed.

“No, it’s alright, Greg. I know you don’t feel betrayed. I don’t really feel like that’s what I’m doing; it was just the easiest way to describe it. I suppose I’m too caught up in societal norms, where a relationship is between two people. I’m not quite sure how to rationalise loving two people equally.”

“You didn’t seem to feel this conflicted before, when we first talked about Sherlock,” Greg said. He was frowning, but John preferred it to him looking alarmed.

“No, I know. I suppose it was all abstract then, just a hypothetical, a fantasy. It didn’t have to fit into any box in my head, but now it’s happened, it’s real and it could be real for some time to come and, suddenly, I’ve got to start thinking about how it will work.”

“Don’t worry about it, John. We worked out pretty well without too much thought, so there’s no reason we can’t just do the same with Sherlock. We just have to do what seems natural.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” John said, feeling much more settled. Greg always seemed to know what to say to cheer him up.

Greg kissed him with a smile. “Of course I am,” he said.

John playfully poked him in the chest. “Don’t be so smug,” he said, then jumped when Greg pinched his backside in retaliation.

“Go get your shower, I’ll put the kettle on. Do you want tea or coffee?” Greg asked, grinning as he dodged the half-hearted punch John sent his way.

“Coffee, I think. I need the caffeine this morning,” John said as he gathered clothes and a towel. “I’m not trying to get rid of you, but won’t you be late for work soon?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I got a call from the DCI; he said to take today and tomorrow off to recover from my run-in with Moriarty and to expect Sally round to take our statements at some point. That’s what woke me up; well, that, and the bed was cold. I already had the weekend off, so that’s four days I get to spend with you.”

“That’s great. I’ll let the clinic know I’m not available for a few days.” Spirits lifted, John had a quick shower and then wandered downstairs. Greg handed him a cup of coffee as he walked into the living room. “Thanks,” he said, taking a sip.

Despite his lighter mood, John still felt slightly out of sorts, worrying about Sherlock’s reaction. He followed Greg to the settee and sat close, drinking his coffee in silence. He started slightly when Greg took the mug out of his hand and set it on the coffee table along with his own.

“Stand up a sec,” he said and John did so, raising a questioning eyebrow. He watched as Greg arranged himself so he was half lying down, with his back to the arm rest and his left leg stretched along the back of the seat cushions, while his right foot stayed on the floor. “Come here,” he said, patting the space between his legs.

John smiled and laid on top of Greg, chest to chest. Once he was settled, Greg shifted his right leg over John’s own, and wrapped his arms round him, cocooning him. They kissed, both moving at the same time to initiate it. The kisses were light, about giving and taking comfort rather than moving things to the next stage. Greg’s hands rubbed soothingly up and down John’s back and into his hair. He wanted to return the favour, because he loved playing with Greg’s hair, but his hands were otherwise occupied holding some of his weight off of Greg’s chest.

John heard the door open downstairs and glanced at the clock. He and Greg had been gently kissing for nearly an hour. They broke the kiss but didn’t get up; John was too comfortable where he was and he wanted the connection in case Sherlock was coming to dump them.

The door opened and Sherlock stepped in, freezing briefly when he saw John and Greg lying together on the sofa. He shook it off and moved to sit on the coffee table, much as John had done earlier. John watched him carefully, noting dilated pupils and a slight catch in Sherlock’s breathing that seemed to indicate that whatever had had Sherlock bolting that morning, it wasn’t down to a lack of desire. John took some hope from that, along with the fact that Sherlock had opted to sit so close to them.

“Sorted?” Greg asked simply.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, sounding much more composed than when he had left. “I had to do a lot of thinking, but I believe I’ve got it all worked out now.

“I didn’t like what we did last night,” he started.

John sucked in a breath and sat up. “Sherlock, give us another chance to show you how good it can be,” he cried, anguished.

Sherlock frowned, as if he didn’t get why John was so upset, then his eyes widened and he said, “Oh. No, John, you have to let me finish. I’m not saying I don’t want to do anything with you again, just that I didn’t like that particular position.”

John sighed in relief. It wasn’t over before it had even begun. He looked at Greg and smiled, linking their fingers together and squeezing gently.

“Did we hurt you?” Greg asked, breaking eye contact with John to turn his attention to Sherlock.

“No, not really.”

“So what didn’t you like?” John asked.

“It was just too much, too intense. When I tried sex in college it wasn’t like that; it was just messy and loud and I couldn’t see why people went to so much effort for such a short burst of pleasure. But last night… I didn’t like being so out of control. I didn’t like how it made me unable to think.” Sherlock shuddered slightly.

“We don’t have to do it that way again, Sherlock,” John said. “There are plenty of other ways to have sex. You have to expect some intensity; that comes with forming an emotional connection with whoever you’re sleeping with, but double penetration is particularly intense, especially for the one in the middle. We can try different things, build up slowly just like Greg and I did when we first started getting serious.”

Greg nodded. “John’s right, Sherlock. We can go as slow or as fast as you need in order to feel comfortable. It’s all just a case of experimenting, and I know you love experiments,”

“We can start with kissing,” John said. “Join us?”

He watched as Sherlock hesitated, then let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding when the younger man nodded. They rearranged themselves on the sofa, Greg and John sitting with Sherlock between them. John gently ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair while Greg pulled him into a gentle kiss.

Sherlock moaned and John smiled. He knew exactly how Sherlock felt- Greg definitely knew how to kiss.

John lost track of time as he alternated between watching the other two men kiss and kissing one or other of them himself. He enjoyed cataloguing the differences between Greg’s sure, drugging kisses and Sherlock’s more tentative explorations. Things stayed light, because there was no way he wanted to scare Sherlock off again, and he knew Greg was just as keen for things to work out.

Eventually, they pulled apart when the front door opened and footsteps started up the stairs. John saw Sherlock’s scowl and said, “It’s probably Donovan come to take our statements.”

“It’s not Donovan,” Sherlock declared

Before he or Greg could ask Sherlock how he knew, Mycroft was striding into the room and turning to face them. “Gentlemen, I’m not interrupting am I?” he asked, looking even more smug than normal.

“Yes. What do you want?” Sherlock snapped.

“Now, Sherlock, is that any way to speak to me after I’ve spent all night and all morning cleaning up your mess?” Mycroft said with a disapproving tone.

John could feel Sherlock almost vibrating next to him, though he didn’t know if it was annoyance with Mycroft or a reaction to their kissing.

“Were you able to sort John’s gun out?” Greg asked.

“Of course, Inspector, I said I would. This is yours, Doctor,” he said, handing John an envelope. “It’s your copy of your gun license. Please don’t use it as an excuse to go round shooting people willy-nilly, you are not James Bond and even I can’t protect you from everything.”

John nodded and examined the envelope. “Thank you, Mycroft. You can rest assured I only intend to shoot those who threaten someone important to me and then only when there are no other options.”

Mycroft gave John a penetrating look, then nodded and turned his attention to Greg. “I’ve talked with your superintendent, Inspector, and the case is now closed, so there will be no visit from one of your colleagues to get statements. I suggest you use your time off to rest; you all look quite exhausted.”

“Then perhaps you should leave so we can rest,” Sherlock said, though not with his usual bite. It seemed he was grateful for Mycroft’s help this time, even if he wasn’t willing to say it outright. Judging by the smirk as Mycroft took his leave, he knew it too.

John looked over the license Mycroft had given him, not quite believing he’d got it. He’d never bothered applying for a license, because he knew he’d never have passed the background checks; they weren’t in the habit of handing out permits to people who were seeing a psychiatrist after being invalided out of a war zone. And seeing as how he’d originally got hold of the gun with the vague idea of swallowing a bullet, John could agree with that policy.

"I don’t want to know how Mycroft knows the serial number of my gun, do I?" he asked.

“Probably not, no," Sherlock said dryly.

"Well, I for one don’t care," Greg said. "I’m just glad it means I don’t have to worry about lying to Sally to keep you out of jail. I’d have done it you know," he confided, reaching behind Sherlock to clasp John’s shoulder.

"I know, and I love you for it, even though I would’ve felt terrible for putting you in that position," John said softly, leaning across Sherlock’s lap and pulling Greg into a kiss.

He heard Sherlock’s breath catch and smiled against Greg’s lips. After a few moments, Sherlock cleared his throat. "This is all very well and good, but we were in the middle of something when my brother interrupted us.”

"So we were," John said, pulling away from Greg and turning his attention to Sherlock, kissing away the slight pout. He lost himself in the kiss. Sherlock might well have been inexperienced, but he didn’t seem to lack in technique.

“God, that’s hot,” Greg muttered, but then the mood was shattered when his stomach rumbled.

John snorted against Sherlock’s mouth, pulling away to peer at Greg. “Hungry, dear?”

“Starving. Have you seen the time? I’m going to make us some bacon sandwiches. You do have bacon here, don’t you?”

“Yep, we have bacon. You can find the frying pan-“ John started, but Greg interrupted him.

“I know where the pans are; I’ve done enough drugs busts in this house to know where everything lives.”

As he headed into the kitchen Sherlock called out, “don’t use the sunflower oil.”

Greg paused and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock with an expression of concern. “I’m not even going to ask. Anything else I should know about?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, but shook his head. “No, you should be fine.” Once Greg had left the room, Sherlock fixed his attention back on John. “Now, where were we?” John was about to dive back into the kissing, but Sherlock beat him to it, throwing a leg over John’s lap and tipping him backwards against the cushions. John couldn’t find it in himself to care about the manhandling, not with the way Sherlock was sucking on his tongue. No, there was nothing wrong with Sherlock’s technique!

~*~

Surprisingly, it was as easy as that. The next few months saw things carry on pretty much as normal. Sherlock still found cases that kept him busy for hours or days at a time. One case required some time in Germany and Sherlock simply took John with him while Greg was left behind. Greg got cases that didn’t require Sherlock’s attention and John still took hours at the clinic where he could.

Sometimes Sherlock vanished for days at a time, but John found it easy to fall back into the routine with Greg. Once he knew Sherlock was committed to giving the relationship a proper try, he was able to relax and not worry when Sherlock pulled one of his disappearing acts.

John and Greg’s healthy, active sex life continued as before, with the added bonus of Sherlock’s presence sometimes. John and Greg had managed to coax Sherlock into some mutual hand jobs and blow jobs, but when it came to penetrative sex, John had got used to Sherlock just sitting and watching them. He would join in sometimes, but seemed quite content to simply observe. John didn’t know whether Sherlock stayed on the sidelines out of apprehension or because he wanted to gather data before attempting to join in again. Or maybe he simply enjoyed watching. John had certainly discovered a previously unknown enjoyment in being watched.

Greg took several of his suits and trousers to Baker Street, because it made more sense for him to spend time where the other two lived. Mrs Hudson took his increased presence in stride and occasionally winked at Sherlock, which confused John and made the tips of Sherlock’s ears go pink. John was determined to get to the bottom of it one day.

It was early evening on a Tuesday in the middle of the third month of their three-way relationship that they got back to that final step.

John was lying on his bed, naked and aroused, with an equally naked and aroused Greg lying on top of him. They’d been at it for awhile, kissing, sucking and touching everywhere they could reach, pushing each other higher. Greg had just pressed the first finger inside John’s body when the door opened and Sherlock stepped in.

John felt his heart rate increase even more and it had been going pretty quickly to begin with. He really did get a kick out of Sherlock watching. They’d brought a comfortable chair into his room to make things easier and John moaned when Sherlock sat in it, just the anticipation enough to push him closer to the edge.

“Just in time,” Greg said with a sexy growl that made John shudder.

“I’ve had an idea I’d like to try,” Sherlock said with a wicked grin. The smile alone made John willing to go along with whatever Sherlock had planned.

Greg must have thought the same, because he cursed quietly and sounded a little strained when he said, “Let’s hear it.”

Sherlock focused on John, asking, “Can you come twice, John, one just after the other?”

John was thrown by the unexpected question, especially as his mind was mostly concentrating on the sensation of Greg’s finger moving in and out of him, occasionally brushing his prostate. He managed to find enough brain cells to reply, “I have no idea; I’ve never tried.”

If possible, Sherlock’s grin got even more wicked. “Excellent, an experiment. Let’s find out if you can, shall we?”

“Ok,” John gasped, hips twitching as Greg once again hit his prostate.

“I’ll warn you now, Lestrade; it’s also going to be a test of your stamina,”

Greg sighed, “Will you _please_ call me Greg when we’re in bed?” he asked half-heartedly.

John and Greg had both tried several times to get Sherlock to use Greg, but each time Sherlock had insisted that he’d always been Lestrade since they first met all those years ago and he just couldn’t make his brain accept the new designation. They’d mostly given up, but Greg always asked anyway.

Sherlock ignored him with ease and John rolled his eyes at Greg, who smirked. “You have to do as I say,” Sherlock continued. “After all, I’m the one running the experiment, so I need to be in control of the methodology.”

“Fine,” John gasped. If Sherlock needed to direct things to feel in control enough to enjoy himself, John was ok with it. Greg nodded his agreement, too.

Sherlock’s smile softened for a moment, then he got what John thought of as his investigative expression.

“Good, good. First, I need you to carry on as you are, Lestrade. Prepare John slowly and try not to hit his prostate too much.”

Greg did as instructed, going from one, to two, to three fingers at a torturous pace. By the time Sherlock told him to stop, John was barely coherent and so hard it hurt. He missed Sherlock telling Greg to remove his fingers, but he certainly didn’t miss the feeling as Greg’s cock pushed inside and filled him up. They both moaned and John felt Greg’s hot breath gusting across his check as he bottomed out inside him.

John tuned into the world again for long enough to hear Sherlock’s next instructions, “Good. Now, Lestrade, I want you to move as slowly and as smoothly as possible. No sudden thrusts and absolutely no touching John’s penis. That goes for you, too, John.”

Once again, Greg did as instructed. It was delicious torture for John, who felt every single inch of Greg’s cock as it drew out until only the head remained inside, then smoothly and slowly pushed back in again and again and again, until John felt like he was floating on the sensation.

He vaguely registered Sherlock’s next set of instructions- that Greg wasn’t allowed to come when John did- but the words didn’t really mean anything to him. He was gone, lost in the sensations. So lost, in fact, that his orgasm took him completely by surprise. It was a sort of endless wave of sensation, leaving him drifting, barely aware of Greg’s harsh panting in his ear, or the shaking of both their bodies as he came down from the high and Greg tried desperately to hold on.

As the afterglow faded a little, John became more aware. He was breathing hard, but not as much as Greg, who was almost sobbing in John’s ear. Greg’s hips were twitching and giving little abortive thrusts. John was so sensitised post-orgasm, that even those tiny movements sent shockwaves through his body.

“God, Sherlock, please let me come,” Greg moaned in a hoarse voice and John rolled his head to the side, surprised to find Sherlock was completely naked. When the hell had that happened and how had he missed the uncovering of all that beautiful skin?

“Soon, Lestrade,” Sherlock soothed. John watched as he stood from the chair and climbed onto the bed behind Greg. He guessed Sherlock was prepping Greg when there was a particularly load moan in his ear and a harder thrust inside him.

Sherlock worked quickly, apparently pushed to the edge by John’s drawn out climax. John felt the added weight on his pelvis as Sherlock pushed inside Greg’s body. And if that hadn’t been a clue, Greg’s muttered, “Christ,” certainly was.

Everyone stilled for a moment as Sherlock let Greg adjust, but he didn’t wait long before starting to thrust. He built speed quickly, each thrust shoving Greg deep into John, nailing his prostate each time. It bordered on painful as his body was still hyper-sensitive, but it wasn’t enough to make him want to stop.

The room filled with panting, moaning and cries, all of them beyond words as the pleasure spiralled upwards. John was surprised to find himself growing hard again and another orgasm building up. He reached out, wrapping one hand round Greg’s bicep and entwining the fingers of his other hand with Sherlock’s where it gripped Greg’s hip.

“Oh god!” he choked, as his second orgasm slammed through him. Where the first one had built and built like a cresting wave, the second one was like an explosion, hot, sharp and blinding. He lay there gasping, right on the edge of blacking out and only dimly aware of heat inside as Greg was finally allowed to come.

John was lost in a haze of sensation and amazement. He’d had his first multiple orgasms and no one had touched his cock once. He vaguely realised that Sherlock must’ve come, and the fact that he could breathe meant that the two men above him must have slid off to the side, but if either of them said anything to him, John didn’t register it. He just lay there in the after glow.

His penultimate coherent thought before sleep claimed him was that if those were the results, Sherlock could take charge as often as he wanted. His final thought was more of a prayer that Sherlock wouldn’t freak out in the morning, because it had been another intense night.

He felt fingers squeeze his own and smiled as he nodded off. They’d be fine.

The End.


End file.
